


I knew you once. You're braver now.

by what_a_dork_fish



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Jaskier is seventeen years old, Multi, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Part-Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Sex Worker Jaskier, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Harassment, Smut, So much smut, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trauma, buffskier rights, conflicting worldviews, men in dresses because it's cute, or is he???
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:27:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26861380
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_a_dork_fish/pseuds/what_a_dork_fish
Summary: The boy stank of fear.Geralt’s eyebrows twitched together further, as the boy tried a pickup line that was obviously rote, with a smile so false it looked genuine. He was attractive, but Geralt didn’t want to bed him.“Not interested,” Geralt grunted.“Please,” the boy hissed, and the fear increased, somehow. “If it’s not you it’s Skrim and he never pays enough.”That wasn’t the reason the boy was terrified of this Skrim fellow. Geralt looked at him, really looked at him. His charming mask was somehow still effortless, but there was a wildness in his eyes, terror and desperation. He’d rather come to a Witcher than a human.Interesting.~In which Geralt acts nobly, but not sensibly, Jaskier comes into his own, and the Fae are angry.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 54
Kudos: 311





	1. A White Knight and A Bard

**Author's Note:**

> So the tags are a bit off-putting and I accept that, but the harassment/abuse is not explicitly described in real time. This fic is primarily about escape, healing, care, and changing views with more information.

The boy _stank_ of fear.

Geralt’s eyebrows twitched together further, as the boy tried a pickup line that was obviously rote, with a smile so false it looked genuine. He was attractive, but Geralt didn’t want to bed him.

“Not interested,” Geralt grunted.

“Please,” the boy hissed, and the fear increased, somehow. “If it’s not you it’s Skrim and he never pays enough.”

That wasn’t the reason the boy was terrified of this Skrim fellow. Geralt looked at him, really looked at him. His charming mask was somehow still effortless, but there was a wildness in his eyes, terror and desperation. He’d rather come to a Witcher than a human.

Interesting.

Geralt thought about it for another two seconds. He was feeling the pull of touch, any touch, after four weeks on the Path with no skin-on-skin contact with any other humanoid. He’d fuck a succubus if he could. But there were no succubi here; just this boy.

Normally, Geralt didn’t like them so young. But normally, they weren’t desperate for his protection.

So he nodded, and stood, and blinked when the boy grabbed his hand, but followed him up the stairs, to the rooms above the inn.

There was one that reeked of sex and pain and fear, that the boy led him to without faltering. Geralt’s nostrils flared at the stench, but he said nothing. As soon as the door was closed behind them, the boy whirled and kissed him, arms worming up around Geralt’s neck, finger sifting through his hair. The kiss was actually better than Geralt expected; and as he pulled the boy into his arms and kissed back, he felt the usual fire in his belly, the intense need to _touch_ that made his fingers search out laces and hems without thinking.

The boy matched his speed, and soon they were on the bed, half-naked already, Geralt already firmly between his thighs, and when Geralt sat back a little to see if there was any oil available—he saw the marks.

Bruises. Scars. All over the boy’s torso and arms. None of them were old.

“I promise I’m not damaged!” the boy blurted, and the fear was back.

“You obviously are,” Geralt growled, tracing a bruise over his kidney very carefully. But, well… it hadn’t been the first time he’d fucked an abused prostitute. So he shrugged and asked, “Any oil?”

“Huh?”

“I’d rather not use just spit.”

The boy stared at him blankly for far too long. Then he said, “No. No oil. I… didn’t know that was a thing.”

Geralt wondered at his own annoyance that this poor kid didn’t even know the proper way to have sex. It wasn’t like they’d ever see each other after Geralt left in the morning. So Geralt sighed heavily and kissed him again. “Fine. We’ll make do.”

Actually… he never penetrated the boy. Just touching his thighs made him tense, made the stink of fear thicker; but touching him where it didn’t hurt made him relax and breathe easier. Geralt preferred that, when the people he bedded could breathe and didn’t hurt because of him. And touching his cock gently, so gently, made him spark with surprised pleasure. So Geralt resigned himself to not sinking deep into him, getting as much contact as possible. That was fine. The boy didn’t mind trying things that were obviously new to him.

The first time the boy gave a breathy, hungry little moan, Geralt was surprised at how intensely his own lust flared. Maybe it was just because he was frustrated that he wasn’t getting what _he_ wanted.

But then the boy mumbled, “Let me suck you off,” and Geralt’s mind stuttered a little in surprise. But he nodded, and they flipped together, and the boy left a trail of kisses and gentle bites all the way down Geralt’s torso before taking his cock into his mouth, and oh _fuck_ , it was good, that greedy mouth and those clever hands—Geralt came too soon, and the flush of pleasure was actually deeper and fuller than the last time he’d fucked. But the boy was still radiating lust, still hard as iron, so Geralt muttered, “Get up here,” and when he did, Geralt turned them again and returned the favor. There was still a trace of woman on him.

There was no fresh fear anymore; just pleasure and cum and sweat. The boy seemed utterly boneless, and Geralt slid up the bed to wrap his arms around him, because that seemed like a good thing to do in that moment, though he wasn’t particularly used to the gesture. Apparently neither was his bedmate, but at least the boy accepted with enthusiasm, snuggling against him and sighing with relief.

“Gods that was good,” he mumbled.

“How much for the night?” Geralt asked, without really thinking. The fire had died, but the part of him that craved touch was _very_ unhappy with the idea of letting go.

“Oh… I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the boy answered, a little timidly. The fear was creeping back, souring the contentment thick in the air. “I haven’t actually… I’m supposed to… well, to be honest, sir, I’m supposed to have three more before midnight.”

“Midnight?” Geralt repeated, appalled. That was barely an hour away. He knew humans didn’t take as long as him to be pleasured, but surely three fucks in an hour was too much.

“It’s not as bad as you think,” the boy said softly, keeping his head down so his sweat-spiked hair barely touched Geralt’s chin.

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

That wasn’t unheard of, Geralt knew; it was well-known that if one paid at the right brothel, one could have any age. But something about the dull, tired way the boy said it made him… angry.

He really was just a boy, a kid. And he was expected to fill a quota of at least six people before midnight (Geralt had seen the first two women). How long had he been working like this, to be so frank about it?

The longer Geralt kept him, the more trouble he’d be in. He shouldn’t be bothered by this. It wasn’t like they would ever meet again. It was enough that he had been gentle to this boy, who was obviously more used to pain.

He ground his teeth, then huffed and said, “Alright. What’re your rates?”

After paying him, they both dressed and went back down to the tavern. Geralt bought another ale, not to wash out the taste of the boy, but to distract himself from the way another man immediately stood and went to grab the boy and drag him upstairs again. Fear, so much fear. Geralt had more ale.

~

He woke up with a very small hangover and a very big bundle of rage in his chest.

He’d monitored the sounds and scents from the boy’s room closely until he passed out in his own bed, and he’d counted at least four customers. Four. And Geralt had not stayed up late.

Fuck. He shouldn’t be this invested already. He really shouldn’t. He needed to leave, today, immediately, before he got caught up in the sad story of one little whore’s life.

Music. Someone playing music—a lute. A soft and sad melody. Geralt frowned. It sounded like it was coming from the boy’s room. Now that he thought about it, there _had_ been a lute in the corner; he just hadn’t cared. But the music was… calming, despite its sadness. Or maybe because of it.

Calming. Nothing calmed Geralt down, nothing but drinking and meditating, and even those weren’t sure. He always had to just push the emotions away under a rock and forget about them to get a semblance of calm. How could music make him feel like… like… like everything was going to be alright?

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he groaned, covering his face with his hands.

Fae. The boy was fae. And Geralt’s stupid, stupid animal hindbrain had already decided on what to do about that.

~~~\0/~~~

Jaskier always slept on the floor, avoiding the mattress where he serviced his clients. After calming down with some music, on his treasured but inexpertly cared for lute, he curled up on the floor and tried to sleep.

He kept thinking about the Witcher.

It had been a last resort, trying to avoid Skrim and pain, and he was… honestly a little shocked at how gentle the Witcher had been. His face had never budged from a frown except for that moment of relaxed bliss when he came, but his hands had been so gentle, and he’d seemed to just _know_ when he was hurting Jaskier. And… and then his mouth…

Jaskier shivered as another flush of heat filled him. He had never received, only given, and he hadn’t known it was possible for him, personally, to feel that good.

And his hands… rough, scarred, but avoiding the pain.

And his arms… strong, ridged with bites and more scars, but warm and comfortable.

And his kisses…

Jaskier drifted into a warm sleep, a relaxed sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept well since he’d stumbled into this village with no memory and no clues except his lute and his name. But thinking of how safe he had felt with the Witcher, he drifted off calmly.

And was then rudely awakened by a hard-shod foot smacking his lower back, right where the pain of being fucked was worst. He woke immediately, and scrambled to sit up. Not fast enough, though; Master Timbur stooped and dragged him to his feet by his upper arm, straining an already-hurt shoulder.

“Dark,” Master Timbur grunted. “Wash up.”

Then he stomped out.

Jaskier rubbed his arm, trembling. Again already? Why couldn’t he have more than a day of rest? Why couldn’t he just relax, so that the pain went away faster?

He’d get out of practice if he rested. And Master Timbur would be angry at lost coin.

So Jaskier stripped and wiped himself off haphazardly with a wet towel, then put on his only other clothes and went down to the tavern. Maybe he’d have only nice people tonight. Maybe he wouldn’t have to be hurt again so soon.

He always started the night delivering food. This would be until he got a customer, usually a regular; then he would lead them upstairs, they’d fuck, and then he’d come back down to get his next customer. Master Timbur had discovered his stamina, and ordered that he put in at least ten customers a night, with a heavy implication that he should try for more.

He rarely filled the quota, unless there were visitors to the village, but there were lots of regulars. He’d started lying, fudging his numbers, saying that visitors kept stiffing him, and even though that got him a bruise for not being good enough, it was… odd, how Master Timbur never questioned his lies. Not even if someone contradicted him.

He had just finished placing plates in front of two regulars to the tavern who did not pay for him at night, managing real smiles for them when they greeted him, when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and the stench of pig flooded his sensitive nose.

Henrik.

Henrik wasn’t cruel or painful, necessarily; he was just… unpleasant. But Jaskier smiled and brought him upstairs and suffered through the slobber and roughness until Henrik came and went away. Jaskier took the time to quickly wipe himself down, shuddering at the memory of lice that had clung to Henrik trying to get into Jaskier’s hair, crawling against his skin… lice didn’t like Jaskier, but they still made his skin crawl.

He serviced two more customers, and hesitated when he saw the last one out. He was tired already, and he didn’t want to give himself to anyone else…

But he was standing in the hall, and if he didn’t come downstairs, Master Timbur would be wondering why.

A hand landed gently between his shoulder blades, and he jumped, but before he could spin around, the Witcher hissed in his ear, “Meet me in the stables as soon as possible. I’ll get you out of here.”

And then the Witcher brushed past him, down the stairs and presumably out of the inn.

Jaskier gaped after him. But then determination flared in his chest, desperate and terrified but so sure that this was the right path, and he swallowed hard before going back in his room to stuff his cleaned clothes into the sack the maid carried them in to and from the laundry, rescue the little purse of stolen coin he kept under a floorboard, and ready his ragged cloak.

Then he went downstairs again for his next customer.

It was Skrim. Jaskier was terrified—but also looking forward to this with dark, evil-feeling glee. As soon as Skrim strode towards the bed, unlacing his trousers, Jaskier grabbed the fireplace poker and brought it down as hard as possible over Skrim’s head.

The man crumpled. There seemed to be a dent in his shaved skull.

Jaskier didn’t think about it, just replaced the poker, slung on his cloak, stole Skrim’s purse, gathered his things (including his lute) and climbed out the window.

There was a roof a mere ten feet down; he landed on it quietly, and looked around for anyone who might see. No, this was the backyard, no one could see. So he slithered down to a dark corner, caught his breath, and made a dash for the back door to the stables.

Jik was supposed to be on duty in the stables; he was fast asleep on bales of hay, snoring. Jaskier hurried past, and saw a man and a horse standing by the front entrance to the stables.

“That was fast,” the Witcher commented.

“I—I think I might have killed someone,” Jaskier whispered, beginning to tremble.

“Was it that Skrim person?”

Jaskier nodded.

“Then no one lost anything. Come on, mount up behind me.”

Jaskier, who had never ridden a horse in his life, came up to the mare quietly as the Witcher mounted, and hesitated. She cast a look at him over her shoulder and snorted quietly, a ‘What are you waiting for?’ kind of snort. So Jaskier grabbed the Witcher’s outstretched hand, let him haul Jaskier up, and settled as well as he could on the packs behind the saddle, arms wrapped around the Witcher’s waist and his heart doing its best to beat its way out of his chest.

The Witcher kicked his horse’s side, and she launched into a gallop.

The fear in Jaskier’s chest eased, and he became… excited. Delighted. He was _free_. He was _out_. And he was _never_ coming back.

~

The horse, who Jaskier decided was his favorite animal in the world, alternated trotting and walking for the entire night. Then, as dawn began, they passed through another village. Jaskier began to feel sleepy, so he clung tighter and hid his face in the back of the Witcher’s shoulder, sighing deeply. He hurt from riding for hours when he’d never ridden at all, but to be honest, it wasn’t any better or worse than being fucked over and over. It was just different muscles being used.

“Don’t fall off,” the Witcher grunted.

“I won’t,” Jaskier murmured.

They exited the village as silently as they’d entered, and then, when the sun had truly risen, the Witcher dismounted, helped Jaskier down, and led both him and the horse off the road, into the woods. There was a stream—well, running water that had carved a path in the dirt. The horse drank, and then the Witcher let her go to forage. Jaskier knelt to splash water on his face and slick back his hair. Gods he was tired.

Wait a minute.

The Witcher hadn’t said anything about it, but Jaskier knew it was coming. His heart sank and his stomach clenched. Well, it wouldn’t be too bad; the Witcher was gentle, after all. But Jaskier _hurt_ , and he didn’t want to have sex. As if he’d ever gotten his way before. So he stood, and waited for the inevitable order to get undressed.

But instead, the Witcher tossed him a bedroll, which Jaskier caught automatically. He looked down at it, baffled.

“I only have one,” the Witcher grunted. “You can have it, I need to meditate.”

Jaskier gaped at him. “For… myself?” he managed to ask, absolutely stunned.

The Witcher frowned at him. “Yes,” he said, and knelt to start a fire.

Jaskier spread out the bedroll with trembling hands, then laid down on it, facing away from the Witcher. All to himself. It wasn’t a bed, but it was almost the same as the floor, and it was _all to himself_. He didn’t have to lie under the Witcher, or pleasure him in any way. He could just… sleep.

The idea was heady, but he fell asleep before he could truly grasp it.

When he woke, it was dark, and he automatically tensed, waiting for the hard boot in his back—

But there was nothing. He raised his head, bewildered, and then remembered. He’d escaped. The Witcher had helped him escape. And the Witcher didn’t want to fuck him, so he wasn’t going to wake Jaskier up with a kick. Relief flooded him, making his joints weak, and he carefully turned over on his back.

The Witcher’s tiny fire was now larger, and there was some sort of cooked animal on a stick. The Witcher was also eating straight from a tiny iron pot, some kind of porridge. Jaskier sat up, carefully, and asked softly, “Is that for me?”

The Witcher nodded.

Jaskier stood and walked over, sitting by the fire to pick up the meat on a stick and take a nibble. It was _delicious_ , and he tore into it gladly, eating quickly in case the Witcher tried to snatch it away.

“Slow down,” the Witcher ordered irritably, “You’ll choke.”

Jaskier froze, but he chewed his mouthful thoroughly, reveling in the taste and the texture, before swallowing it. Then he tried, he really did, to eat more slowly, but habits are so hard to break, and he was so hungry. There was a little too much for him, but he didn’t know when he’d next be allowed a meal like this, so he finished it off without hesitation.

The Witcher sighed heavily. “Do you have any money?” he asked. “You’ll need to buy your own meals at the next village, I can’t afford us both.”

“I could sleep with a few people,” Jaskier offered half-heartedly.

The Witcher stared at him, frowning, for a good five minutes. Then he said, “Not if you don’t want to. Just play your lute and they’ll pay you.”

“What?” Jaskier straightened up in alarm, his mouth suddenly dry. “What if someone tries to steal it? What if someone _breaks_ it?!”

The Witcher’s mouth tightened. Then he said gruffly, “I doubt anyone will. Just keep it close.”

Jaskier looked for his lute, and saw it was strapped to the Witcher’s saddlebags, gently so as not to strain the strings. It was not in good condition, but it was the only thing he had that mattered to him.

“Do you think… I’m good enough for that?” he asked very softly.

“I heard you last night. You were good.”

Jaskier swallowed hard, then checked his purse and the one he’d stolen from Skrim. Barely enough for food and drink. But… if he were good enough to get paid for his playing…

He was shaking. The idea of doing something other than having to let people take him to bed to earn coin was a long-time dream. But he hadn’t ever thought of playing music. Master Timbur had always said he wasn’t good for anything else. But what if Timbur was wrong?

This was too much. His head was hurting and he felt sick and his body ached. He stood, stumbling a little, and went to the stream to splash more water on himself, trying to wake from this strange dream. Surely he wasn’t really being told he could be a musician for a living, by a _Witcher_ of all people.

“We should move on soon.”

“Yes,” Jaskier whispered, shivering as the cold water rolled down his neck and arms. “I… yes.”

They walked all night, to let “Roach” rest (what a peculiar name for a horse, though). They also stopped often for her to graze at the side of the road, and when Jaskier asked why, the Witcher grunted, “She’s a horse. They need to eat, too.”

Jaskier realized his bruises from customers were going down, while the pain of riding and walking began to take its toll. Oh well. To keep up with a Witcher, he had to walk quickly. So he did. He was determined not to be left behind.

“Do you have a name?” he asked the Witcher, as the sun began to rise again and they closed in on an actual town.

The Witcher glanced at him, frowning. “Yes,” he said, but reluctantly.

“Will you tell me it? So I don’t have to keep calling you the Witcher in my head?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Because names are important. Names are special.”

“Then I shouldn’t have to give you mine.”

Jaskier bit his lip, then blurted, “Mine is Jaskier.”

“Hmm.”

The guards on the town wall called for them to stop, so they did. And then the guards opened the gate just enough for three of their number to advance on them, warily, swords at the ready. Jaskier couldn’t help edging more behind the Witcher, afraid of those swords, and not because their wielders might decide to kill him. He just… hated steel, and never touched iron if he could help it. Iron made his skin buzz unpleasantly. Steel was better, but still not good.

“Who the hell are you?” one of them called.

The Witcher sighed and stepped to the side, pulling Jaskier forward gently. “That’s you, idiot,” he muttered.

“Oh,” he whispered, and hitched on his best smile. “Hello,” he called back. “I’m Jaskier.”

“Why are you traveling with this bastard?”

His mind went blank, as it always did before his smoothest, most believable lies. “Oh, part of his payment from a job was me, so he’s leaving me here so I won’t bother him _or_ my family.”

The guards swallowed it. One of them snorted. Another said scornfully, “That’s some people for you.”

The third, the one who had been asking questions, sheathed his sword. “Fine. You can come in. There’s a job on the noticeboard for a Witcher, anyway.”

Jaskier kept a bright, pleasant expression on his face as they entered the town, to hide his fear. Would someone recognize him? Would Timbur have sent word? What if he really _was_ a bad musician and he _did_ have to pay his way with his body?

He swerved to walk a little closer to the Witcher, pretending to just be avoiding a pile of horseshit on the ground.

One of the guards led them to an inn, where a noticeboard was covered in paper. Jaskier, being unable to read, just shuffled his feet and looked around as the Witcher read the notices. This town was bigger than he expected, and cleaner, and most people wore clothes that didn’t have multiple patches and darns and holes. He felt rather ashamed, in his ragged clothes and without shoes. But when the Witcher thrust Roach’s reins into his hands and ordered gruffly, “Hold her,” Jaskier nodded and did so, petting her mane nervously.

“Did the Witcher give you those bruises?”

He turned, startled, to see a middle-aged woman staring at him with concern. He smiled brightly like he’d learned to, and said, “No. He hasn’t touched me.”

She seemed startled. “He hasn’t?” she repeated in disbelief. “But all Witchers are dangerous.”

“Yes, but nevertheless, he hasn’t hurt me.” Strange but true. And he trusted people who didn’t hurt him. Which meant he trusted the Witcher and maybe Master Timbur’s wife, who gave him medicine and rubbed chamomile on his worst bruises.

“Huh.” She frowned and pursed her lips. “That’s… good. Are you staying the night?”

“I hope to,” he replied.

She nodded, as if deciding something to herself. “Alright. Good day to you, sir.” And she walked away.

Jaskier frowned, bewildered—but the Witcher was walking out of the inn, with the notice clenched in his fist, and gobs of spit on his cloak. His face was tight, but Jaskier was not afraid. He was worried for the Witcher.

“They gave me the job,” he said tersely, taking Roach’s reins. “I told them you’re a musician. Take your lute and go.”

Jaskier nodded, unstrapped his lute and bag, cradled the instrument to him for a moment, and asked softly, “Will you be alright?”

The Witcher looked startled. Then he replied, “Yes,” and led Roach to the stable.

Jaskier took a deep, shuddering breath, hitched on his most pleasant mask, and went inside.

“Nah, you can’t be!” the barmaid exclaimed when he gave her his name. “You’re a beggar, surely!”

“I promise I’m better at playing than dressing,” he said, still smiling. His stomach was so tight with dread. He knew it, he knew he’d never get a chance, they wouldn’t even let him _try_ —

She snorted, then said, “Fine. Give me a demonstration.”

Jaskier hoisted his lute up, searched his mind desperately for a tune—but his fingers had other ideas. Instead of any of the bawdy ballads he’d heard sung in the tavern, his hands played something he’d made up himself, a soothing song, a comforting song, something to help him through the bad dawns.

When he stopped and looked up, the barmaid actually had tears in her eyes as she stared at him. “Oh,” she whispered. “Yeah. Yeah, go sit down and I’ll bring you some stew.”

Surprised, Jaskier nodded, and sat in a corner, shy with the gazes of five strangers following him. He did feel… a little excited, though. That he had earned food with music. Maybe he _could_ earn money!

The stew was delicious, and the ale was good, and he actually felt quite sleepy and safe as he offered money for a room. The barmaid called in the innkeeper, and told him to play. So Jaskier did, a bouncy song, a hopeful song, and when he stopped the innkeeper was smiling, and said, “The room is on the house. You can have the third on the right.”

“Thank you, sir!”

And then Jaskier went and had an absolutely lovely sleep on a clean, firm mattress that didn’t stink of old cum and sweat, knowing that come nightfall, he would not be forced to have sex to pay for a meal.

~

He woke energized, and eagerly went downstairs, carrying his precious lute. The barmaid told him that if he sat by the fire and played, he could earn coin and another meal. Jaskier thanked her sincerely, made his way through the crowd, and sat on the stool by the fire. People were looking at him. He kept his head down, beginning to feel self-conscious, and tried to think—but the music came without decision on his part.

A happy song, an encouraging song, a dancing song. Apparently it was a tune well-known, because soon people were singing along, and someone put a plate at his feet, and coins fell like a faint counterpoint to the lute. He started to smile, a real smile. The kind of smile he hadn’t had on his face in… since he could remember. This felt good. This felt _right_.

By midnight, he was in the spirit, and singing too, and he was amazed at himself, at how his voice soared above and beside and under the voices of the crowd. They were happy. He was making them _happy_ , without any of them hurting him. It was… intoxicating.

Finally, everyone was thrown out, and Jaskier stopped, breathless. He gathered the coins on to the plate, and walked to the bar, still grinning, to carefully count out enough for the last of the stew, bread, and ale.

“On the house,” the barmaid replied firmly. “But I’ll take three coppers to give you a proper purse.”

Jaskier nodded and handed over the money, feeling shaky with exultation. The Witcher had been right. The Witcher had been kind and gentle and helped him.

He had to repay him. Jaskier had to repay the Witcher for everything he’d done.

He started counting out money again.

~

Somehow, Jaskier caught up to the Witcher before he left, and pressed as much money as he could spare into his hands, with a big grin and a whispered, “Thank you so much.”

The Witcher stared, but nodded and left. Jaskier hurried back inside.

He used his new wealth to buy clothes, clean ones, _new_ ones (well, new by his standards). He bought boots, which were strange, and socks, which were a delight. And he healed. Soon there was no trace of his former life on his body, and he almost forgot the sheer hell that place had been to him.

~

Jaskier didn’t know why the men with iron swords drove him out of the town with screams of “fae” and “monster”, but he went anyway, clutching his lute and very glad that he was carrying his purse, which was full. He ran until he passed the final farmhouse, until he couldn’t run anymore, and veered into the woods to hide.

Collapsing beneath a particularly old and strong tree, he gasped for breath and tried desperately to think. What had he done? What were they so angry about? Surely it wasn’t because he’d refused an orgy with them? Why had they brought out the iron? He opened his fist and stared at the wound on his palm, bleeding sluggishly—but burned. His skin was burned where it had been touched by iron.

But as he stared, bewildered and dismayed, the wound slowly closed, and the burn healed, until his palm was healthy and marred only by a thin raised scar that did not impede the movement of his hand.

He stared for several more long moments, catching his breath. Healing. Burned by iron. Fae.

Jaskier moaned in fear, and curled up with his lute tucked against his belly, tears stinging his eyes.

The sun rose. He did too. He’d made a band for his lute, to hold it on his back when he needed his hands free; it would hold it while he walked, too. He scrubbed his eyes on his sleeve, took a deep breath, and went back to the road. It didn’t matter that he was fae. It didn’t matter that he was a monster. He had never hurt anyone, and he never would, so there was no need to kill himself or let someone else kill him. He’d just have to make it to the next place that needed a musician. It was going to be alright.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt really didn’t expect to see the boy, Jaskier, ever again. But he was stepping out of an inn before dawn, driven out by suspicious locals after a job well done, when he nearly ran into Jaskier.

He looked better. Healthy. His hair was shorter and his clothes were better and he had boots. But the fear that flashed over his face when he saw it was Geralt, was painfully familiar.

“Hello,” Jaskier mumbled, and hurried past him, into the inn. Geralt frowned, but went to the stables. Maybe he’d gotten itchy feet and decided to travel. Fae and humans were both strange like that.

“We don’t want your kind here!”

Geralt spun, to see Jaskier stumbling out of the inn, clutching his luteband and looking absolutely terrified. The door slammed shut behind him. He noticed Geralt staring, turned away quickly, and started walking again.

Geralt frowned, troubled, but instead of worrying just readied Roach and prepared to leave. Not his problem.

But what if it was?

He shook his head firmly and led Roach out of the stable to mount and turn her head towards the gate. It wouldn’t be hard to pass Jaskier on the road and not look back. He was just a fae.

A fae that Geralt had “rescued” and turned loose to be discovered and run out of town…

Didn’t matter. Wasn’t his problem.

Jaskier was much farther down the road than Geralt expected. It had only been a few months since they had last seen each other, but he seemed so tired, even from behind and at a distance. His shoulders were bowed, his head was down, and his body seemed to sag. No, he _was_ sagging, he was falling down—Geralt dismounted and sprinted the last few yards between them, Roach following at an easier pace, as Jaskier just crumpled at the side of the road.

He had barely any scent besides sweat and the last trace of fear and the smells of being outside for a long time. When Geralt knelt next to him, he saw that Jaskier’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was shallow.

“Jaskier.” Geralt shook his shoulder, surprised at this urge to check on him. “Jaskier, wake up.”

Eyelids fluttered open, and Jaskier looked at him blearily, his breathing still not right, but at least he didn’t look like he was dying. “Oh,” he mumbled, “Hello. I’m… I’m just resting. I’ll be fine in a bit.”

Geralt snorted in disbelief, hesitated, then said, “I’ll take you somewhere safer.”

“Huh?”

And before Jaskier could protest, Geralt had picked him up and carried him over to Roach. Eventually Jaskier was relatively upright in the saddle, blinking hard in surprise, and Geralt attached the ties to keep him on. Then, with a hand on Jaskier’s back, he patted Roach’s shoulder and she started ambling down the road again. She was always much more amenable after a couple nights in a warm stable with more food than just the occasional forage.

They got a fairly long way away, Jaskier dozing in the saddle with Geralt’s hand lightly on his back. Then Geralt took the reins that had been looped on the pommel and gently turned Roach’s head so she would head off the road, into a little glade between fields. She snorted but agreed, and when he took the bridle off, she immediately began cropping the grass. He did not like bits, not for dear Roach, but Vesemir always insisted, and he might lose the bit if he took it off and stuffed it in his bags most of the time. So he made do, and hoped she wouldn’t wander off or spook. Not that Roach had ever spooked before; trained by Witchers, and knowing Geralt would protect her at all costs, she was very calm, when she wasn’t being a cantankerous old witch.

Geralt patted her neck affectionately before untying Jaskier and unloading him. Jaskier was actually already asleep, and when Geralt hoisted him up into his arms, Jaskier snuggled his face into Geralt’s armor, mumbling to himself. He flinched as the steel studs pressed into his cheek and forehead, but he didn’t wake up. Geralt quickly set him down, and started caring for Roach’s tack.

Jaskier slept for a long time. Geralt was used to humans sleeping for hours and hours like the inefficient creatures they were, but this… didn’t seem normal. He didn’t even _move_ , except for breathing. But he wasn’t human, he was fae—who never slept at all, being creatures of magic and mischief, even more so than elves. So why did he sleep so long?

Geralt sighed and decided it was time to move on a little past noon. He’d rested, cared for Roach’s tack, groomed her, and eaten something. She had also eaten and was also dozing in the sun, but her doze was more lazy and smug than Jaskier’s heavy, exhausted sleep.

Somehow, Geralt managed to wake Jaskier enough that he could be loaded on to Roach. Then, as soon as they were back on the road, Jaskier’s head drooped, and he fell asleep sitting upright. Geralt shook his head, ignoring the urge to take care of Jaskier more than this. The kid just… needed rest. He’d be better when he woke up. Right?

But fae don’t need rest…

Geralt’s stomach dropped as he thought of another explanation. Maybe Jaskier himself wasn’t fae. Maybe he’d made a bargain. Given something up, for amazing musical talent. Fuck. So he _was_ human, he was just magicked. Geralt looked up at Jaskier, fast asleep and barely breathing. Buggering _f_ _uck_.

Thankfully, things changed as soon as the sun slipped under the horizon. Jaskier roused, and groaned, and rubbed his eyes. “How long have we been going?” he asked groggily.

“Not long,” Geralt replied, removing his hand from Jaskier’s back. “Just since noon. Time to rest Roach.”

“Mm.” Jaskier scratched his head, looking around, becoming more alert by the moment. Then he blinked, and looked down at Geralt. “Oh. I… hello.”

Geralt frowned up at him. “What, did you not know it was me?” he demanded sharply.

“No,” Jaskier replied frankly. “I thought you were just… someone on the road.”

“How much have you been sleeping?”

Jaskier shrugged uncomfortably. “Dunno. When the sun’s up, I fall asleep.”

Geralt’s frown deepened, but he didn’t reply, just led Roach off the road into the wooded hills. When they reached a nice defensible spot, he untied Jaskier and helped him down. The kid winced and stumbled a little, but after a moment of just standing still, he nodded and moved away. Geralt, who had caught him around the waist, let go quickly to fight the urge to linger. It was just because he needed touch again. It was just because he hadn’t been able to scrape up enough money for a prostitute in… well, since he’d first lain with Jaskier.

First? That made it sound like he wanted it again. And he didn’t. He scowled at his own bullshit and got to work relieving Roach of her burdens and checking her for sores. There was one just beginning on her back, probably because Jaskier couldn’t ride for shit; Geralt smeared some healing salve on that before doing anything else, like set up camp.

He turned when he heard the scrape of stones, and saw that Jaskier was encircling a natural dip in the ground of this little craggy cup Geralt had chosen for the night with flat stones. Then Jaskier stood and said, “I can go find firewood.”

Geralt was already shaking his head. “You’ll end up as dinner. I’ll do it. Watch him,” Geralt told Roach, who fixed him with the gaze of one accusing brown eye. “Please,” Geralt amended, and she snorted in agreement.

Jaskier just gaped as Geralt loosened his swords in their sheaths and walked away.

Geralt managed to gather enough wood to last the night, left Jaskier in charge of starting the fire, and grabbed his crossbow to hunt some dinner. He’d need to stock back up on quarrels at the next town; he’d been reusing these ones for weeks and it was showing, no matter how well he sharpened them.

Amazing luck that night: he got a deer, medium-sized, which meant plenty for him _and_ Jaskier, and enough to leave as a lure for any beasts who might otherwise attempt to attack them. Geralt saved his quarrel, cut out the liver and a lung as snacks while he used his dagger to cut out the best meat, and when he was done, he remembered to wipe his mouth on his arm thoroughly to remove traces of blood. He was extremely confused as to why Jaskier wasn’t afraid of him, in fact seemed comfortable around him—but he was also reluctant to lose a potential bedmate over his eating habits.

Fuck. He needed to get over this throbbing fire telling him to bed Jaskier.

He brought the meat back to the camp and set it on a rock to begin chopping it into smaller pieces for cooking. Jaskier, who had greeted him quietly, watched in fascination.

“I feel like I should remember how to do that,” Jaskier said abruptly, as Geralt shoved chunks of venison on sharpened sticks. “Butchering and all. Maybe it was helpful, once.”

Geralt frowned at him. He wanted to ask what the hell that meant, but didn’t really have the words for it.

Jaskier blushed, and looked away, but seemed to know what Geralt was thinking. “I don’t remember anything before about a year and a half ago,” he said, with an apologetic tone. “Just my name and how to play my lute.”

That matched with Geralt’s suspicion, of Jaskier having made a deal. Odd that he knew his name—or at least one that he had been given. Usually, when fae took a person’s memory, they took the name, as well. Or maybe it was the other way around. Geralt still wasn’t sure.

But he shrugged and grunted, “You can relearn. But not from me.”

“That’s true,” Jaskier murmured, rocking back and forth, frowning thoughtfully into the fire. “I might have to. I don’t think… that many people like musicians.”

Geralt remained silent, leaning the meat against the stone sides of the pit. Jaskier seemed talkative tonight.

“I’ve been thrown out of four villages so far, and there were two where I played all night and got enough coin for a bed, but they only gave me food and then turned me out. I’ve… been sleeping in a lot of barns.”

Geralt blinked, raising his head slightly. Of course. If he needed to sleep as soon as the sun rose, he’d need a defensible place to lay down. But… Geralt had been alive for almost a century, and traveling for most of that time. All humans liked a bit of entertainment, didn’t they? He’d seen enough celebrations over the smallest things to know music was a good thing according to humans. Why wouldn’t they want Jaskier, who was perhaps the best musician Geralt had ever heard? Good enough that even Geralt felt the emotions of his music?

“I should probably get back on the road soon,” Jaskier said abruptly. “I… need to get as far as possible at night.”

“No.”

Jaskier’s head whipped around, and he stared at Geralt, who scowled because he could not blush in embarrassment. “Eat first, then we’ll both head out,” Geralt continued firmly. He was in it this far, might as well continue. “There’s a contract in the next village. We’ll part ways there.”

Jaskier opened his mouth, then closed it, and looked back to the fire. Geralt did too.

They ate in silence. Then, as Geralt was considering going to find some water source to wash up, Jaskier spoke up quietly. “I need to repay you.”

“No you don’t,” Geralt grunted as he tossed his used sticks into the fire.

“Yes I do.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“What do you want, then?”

“For you to stop talking.”

Jaskier stood, walked over, and sat in Geralt’s lap. Before Geralt could push him away, the damn kid kissed him, looping one arm around his neck and burying the fingers of his other hand in Geralt’s hair.

And that fucking hunger for touch flared up in Geralt, excited by Jaskier making the first move of his own free will. It wasn’t just sex, it was craving the warmth of humanoid arms, desperation for being drawn close instead of pushed away, excitement that apparently, Jaskier didn’t want his money. Jaskier was paying _him_.

“You shouldn’t—” Geralt gasped when Jaskier paused so they could both breathe.

“I want to,” Jaskier replied, and kissed him again. This time, Geralt let out a low groan and kissed back, tightening his arms around Jaskier. Well, if he wanted to…

There was no fear coming off of Jaskier. Only determination, and lust, and something like relief. Geralt lowered himself on to his back, pulling Jaskier with him, then rolled them so he was on top. Gods. _Gods_ , he was so desperate. It was pathetic. But Jaskier didn’t seem to mind Geralt rutting against him like this. His lust was increasing, getting deeper, with notes of his own desperation.

It didn’t take that much for either of them to come. They didn’t even take off their clothes. It was enough to press together so hard and kiss and touch and _be_. For a wonderful ten minutes, Geralt wasn’t a Witcher; he was just a person chasing pleasure, for himself and his companion.

Jaskier’s broken whimper and the sudden increase in warmth against Geralt’s hips heralded his own orgasm; Geralt took two more thrusts to groan into the last kiss and come in his trousers.

The woods were quiet around them when they stopped and laid there, panting, Geralt’s face pressed into Jaskier’s neck. Roach munched some grass and made a sleepy rumbling noise. Insects chirped merrily, unaware of the humanoids in the clearing.

“Fuck,” Geralt muttered.

“Mm,” Jaskier replied, running his fingers lazily through Geralt’s hair.

“Blood.”

“If we find water we can get cleaned up.” Jaskier’s other hand smoothed down Geralt’s back, all the way down, and tightened on his ass, pushing him closer. A clear invitation to do more. The hunger for it was so intense Geralt couldn’t speak for a long moment.

“That would be best,” he croaked.

~

There was a stream just a little ways away. They both stripped, Geralt more hesitantly, and cleaned off the blood from Geralt’s armor that had rubbed off onto Jaskier, and the sticky messes in their trousers and underwear. Then Jaskier tackled Geralt to the ground, kissed him, and did that thing where he lined up their cocks and they rocked together like that, both gasping and urgent and trembling. Fucking stupid touch-starved body. Geralt came first that time, but Jaskier didn’t take much longer.

Then they rinsed each other off, and Jaskier kept dropping little kisses all over Geralt’s shoulders and neck and back and face, and it was… nice.

It wasn’t far from the stream to their campsite, but Geralt was still very wary as they walked through the woods naked and carrying their dripping clothes. Thankfully, nothing attacked.

It was only as they were improvising some frames from branches to drape their clothes on in front of the fire to dry faster that Geralt realized that he only had one change of clothing, and Jaskier didn’t have anything.

“Hm,” he said to himself, frowning at this complication.

“It’d probably be better to sit on a blanket or something while our clothes dry,” Jaskier mentioned absently, scratching his head with his other hand on his hip. He looked so much more vulnerable in the firelight than in the dark by the stream. Geralt had to look away, and went to fetch his blanket.

~~~\0/~~~

Jaskier could never in a million years explain what possessed him to fuck a Witcher twice in twenty minutes. The only thing he really knew was that the first time didn’t count and it hadn’t been enough. Why didn’t it count? Why hadn’t it been enough? Fuck if he knew.

He liked leaning on the Witcher’s side while they waited for their clothes to dry. He had never really been allowed to… to touch someone like this, casually, with no expectations. Those expectations were out of the way, and this wasn’t necessary. But the Witcher let him do it anyway.

Jaskier could feel the movement of the stars and moon. It wasn’t very late at all; he’d only woken up from the end of daylight a few hours ago. So when their clothes were dry, they’d still have plenty of time to travel.

Roach was sleeping, stomping in her dreams. The night was quiet and soft, with just a hint of autumn bite. The Witcher radiated warmth like a human-shaped oven. Jaskier felt quite safe, despite being completely naked in the wilderness. And he was sure it couldn’t last.

But it did last. It lasted all through the Witcher deciding their clothes were dry enough to wear, packing up and waking Roach (she was very displeased, but only sulked, not attempted to draw blood), and dousing the fire. It lasted through finding their way back to the road. It lasted for the whole, silent walk.

They didn’t get anywhere close to the next village before sunrise. Jaskier began to lag, as exhaustion seeped into limbs that had been vigorous mere minutes ago, and he stumbled and managed to lurch forward enough to grab the Witcher’s arm, making him turn his head so fast Jaskier felt dizzy on his behalf. Or maybe he was just dizzy anyway.

“Witcher,” he mumbled. “I’m… not gonna stay awake much longer.”

The Witcher huffed, but he didn’t seem all that annoyed. He just stopped, helped Jaskier climb into the saddle, tied him on, and started leading Roach again.

“What’s your name?” Jaskier asked, as dawn began and his felt his eyelids droop.

“Call me Geralt,” the Witcher said softly.

“Nice name.” And then Jaskier was asleep.

~

He woke slowly, blinking as he felt the last slip of sun vanish over the horizon. He yawned—and realized he was not riding on Roach.

Jaskier sat up immediately and looked around.

He was on a blanket next to a campfire. Around the campfire, and thus him, stood a ring of… _creatures_. Tall, thin, elegant creatures. Squat, knobbly, wrinkly creatures. Creatures like trees and creatures like stone and creatures like animals and creatures that defied description.

Jaskier’s mouth went dry.

“We’ve come to collect,” said a creature with glowing ice-blue eyes.

“Collect what?” Jaskier asked, his voice a squeak.

“Our side of the bargain,” said another creature, one that looked like a toad with chicken legs. “We’re here for the person you trust.”

“Ge—the Witcher? Why would you want _him_?”

There was a general rustle of unease, and one of the creatures whispered, “A Witcher? You trust and travel with a Witcher, of all people?”

“Yes,” Jaskier replied. “He’s—he’s kind to me. And I won’t let you take him.” He sounded awfully brave for a single human up against perhaps two dozen fae.

More rustling. Then a creature that was more like a blob of shadow oozed closer to him, and said, “Riddles, then. Riddles. If we win, you give us back what we gave you, and the Witcher can have your mindless body. If you win, we will take him instead of you.”

“Rubbish bargain,” Jaskier replied flatly, and turned on his bum to face the shadow. “Riddles. You choose one representative to answer my riddles, and that representative cannot consult nor take suggestions from the others. Similarly, I will not consult with anyone else. If I win, you leave and don’t come back to me or the Witcher for ten years. If you win, I will give you back what you gave me.” A drop of sweat rolled down the back of his neck, but he glared at the shadow defiantly and waited.

“The Witcher cannot kill us nor attempt to banish us?” the creature demanded.

“I will order him not to touch any of you gathered here tonight until the game is done,” Jaskier replied, because he could not take the chance of saying Geralt would refrain from harming them simply because Jaskier said. “You cannot kill him nor attempt to harm, banish, or otherwise compromise his sanity, senses, self, or body.”

The creatures whispered together for a long moment. Then the toad on chicken legs approached, as the shadow flowed away. Jaskier turned again to face it.

“We begin the riddles, with me as representative,” the toad on chicken legs said.

It was… a long night. Jaskier barely understood the riddles the toad on chicken legs told, but somehow he knew the answer to each. The toad on chicken legs seemed to know his riddles, too. At one point Geralt’s voice barked “Bard!”, and Jaskier finished his riddle before turning towards Geralt’s voice and calling, “I order you not to touch any of them gathered here tonight until the game is done.”

That seemed to tell him enough of what was going on that he hung back, and let Jaskier and the toad with chicken legs battle.

But the toad with chicken legs was growing frustrated, hopping from side to side angrily as it spat out more and more convoluted riddles. Jaskier answered each after barely a moment of hesitation, and replied with equally convoluted riddles that he made up on the spot. They began to rhyme. And he began to speak them in a specific beat.

The toad with chicken legs hopped in place, croaking angrily, as Jaskier asked a riddle in a singsong voice, hearing a faint counterpart melody in the back of his head. His fingers itched to play it on his lute.

“Unfair! Unfair!” the toad with chicken legs hissed. “You mock us!”

“You spoke no rules against mocking,” Jaskier retorted. “What is your answer?”

But the toad with chicken legs seemed stumped, croaking and hissing and hopping. The other fae became agitated, whispering guesses to each other—but they were not allowed to step forward and help. The toad with chicken legs stomped and screamed, trying to think of the answer.

“Do you cede the game?” Jaskier demanded, when his head began to ache from the toad with chicken legs’ noises.

“YES!” the toad with chicken legs screeched, stomping its foot. “Yes, curse you, yes! We cede the victory! Ten years, we give you ten years! And then we collect!”

“There was no talk of collecting!” Jaskier spat back before they could all run away. “You all agreed not to come back to either me or the Witcher! That simply means we will meet again in ten years!”

The fae all growled, frustrated, but Jaskier was certain he had them. They had underestimated him. They had let him get in a loophole or two. He did not dare think that was foolish—only slightly arrogant.

“Ten years and then we meet!” the toad with chicken legs barked. “Remember that we have your name, Jaskier of the coast!”

“Remember that at this moment I do not care!” Jaskier snapped.

Another fierce growl, but then the fae faded, leaving nothing but mushrooms.

Geralt stomped out of the forest, steel sword drawn, his jaw clenched. Jaskier stood, feeling weak at the knees but proud of himself, and faced him with a scowl of his own.

“Don’t be a prick,” he told Geralt crossly. “They were going to hurt you before the bargain.”

“You bargained with them _twice_ ,” Geralt snarled.

“And I won this time,” Jaskier shot back, ignoring the implication that he’d done this before. He glanced at the sky; only a few hours until dawn. “What happened to you, anyway?”

“I went to hunt and got turned around like a fucking human, I assume until you engaged them.”

“Probably.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes with both hands. “Fuck. That took too long. Alright, should we head out?”

When he lowered his hands, Geralt was frowning at him thunderously. Then the Witcher said, “No. Roach needs her sleep.”

Roach, who had been hiding in the trees behind the fae, snorted, startling them both, and trotted primly out into the clearing, shaking her head. She was already saddled, all bags packed and hung neatly, her reins wrapped around the pommel of the saddle, Jaskier’s lute securely tied down, and dandelions woven into her mane and tail, which both had braids in them.

“You didn’t do that, did you?” Jaskier asked, gaping at her.

“No, I did not,” Geralt rumbled.

Roach trotted over to Jaskier and nudged his chest with her nose, hard. He stumbled, and automatically flung out his arm to catch himself—on Geralt. Who actually reached out and grabbed his arm to steady him.

Jaskier’s head whipped around. He and Geralt stared at each other for a long moment.

Then Geralt let go and stomped up to Roach to inspect the tack and bags. Jaskier rubbed his arms and noticed that there was an extra bag, small, hung on the opposite side as Geralt. Jaskier sidled up to it, and opened it carefully.

Silk. Blue and red silk inside. His mouth fell open, and he carefully drew out the silk. It was a suit, a whole outfit, in lovely silks, and he knew without even checking that they would fit him perfectly.

Under them in the bag were a shirt of fine linen with beautiful lace detailing, braies, and socks. Nestled at the very bottom—the bag was much bigger on the inside than it seemed—was a pair of lovely new leather boots, stamped with dandelions. And there was a slip of paper. He drew it out with trembling hands, folded the silks again carefully, and settled them in the bag, which he then closed securely. Then he looked at the paper.

Of course. Writing. And he couldn’t read it.

His cheeks burned as he felt Geralt come closer. “What the fuck,” Geralt muttered. Then, “What does it say?”

Jaskier swallowed hard and said quietly, “I don’t know. I can’t read.”

Geralt grunted, said, “Not surprising,” and took the paper gently. He then read it aloud. “Little boy, here is a gift from me. Do not attempt repayment; that did not go well for you last time. Tell the Witcher I did not take anything, but he might enjoy the money I put in the pocket.”

Jaskier blinked, hard, and looked up at Geralt’s face. Geralt’s mouth was tight as he scanned the note again. He then thrust it at Jaskier, and rummaged in the saddlebag that Jaskier had been expressly forbidden to touch. When Geralt withdrew his hand, he held a fistful of silver coins.

“Hm,” he said, surprised. Then he put the silver back. “Alright. Roach seems fine.”

And they headed back to the road, Jaskier remembering the blanket at the last minute. The sun inched up into the sky; Geralt helped Jaskier mount; Jaskier fell asleep sitting up.

~

He woke lying down again, in a bed this time. An inn. It was dusk, and he was quite ready to get up.

He stood, stretched, noted the layout of the room and the pile of saddlebags in the corner, and grinned. He always felt better indoors at night. Locating a pitcher of water and a basin, he poured a little into the basin and splashed his face, drying off with his shirt. Then he grabbed his lute and left the room.

The tavern was half-empty, but the barman shrugged and told Jaskier that his room and board were already paid for by the Witcher, so it didn’t matter, go ahead. Jaskier thanked him, found a seat by the fire, and began to play. He wanted to warm up himself and the crowd.

For some reason, instead of dread that he’d be thrown out, he felt quite calm. He’d won against the fae, and bought himself and the Witcher ten more years. He’d been given something useful that he hadn’t even known he’d been longing for, a proper fancy outfit. And Geralt had paid for him to have a good place to stay.

He started humming as he played, a happy tune, a bouncy song. He could hear quiet chuckles from the patrons—not cruel or disparaging, but amusement, enjoyment. With a sudden rush, he remembered the thrill of his first tavern, and he grinned, finding a song that he’d made up himself to keep up his spirits on the road. He changed notes on the fly, making it happy, and he could almost _feel_ the whole tavern lighten in mood.

More people came in. The place became livelier. Jaskier realized that it was his own mood that was making the patrons happy.

That sparked something in the back of his head, a thought of being the best—no, it was gone.

He started singing, a song he’d titled Night Before The Wedding, about a couple who both had lovers, and were scrambling to hide that fact from their families until their wedding; it made several people laugh outright, and he felt… confident.

Confident.

Jaskier wasn’t sure how long he played and sang, but he was sure he did well. He earned a tidy pile of coin by the time he noticed Geralt entering, looking like a drowned rat. It was probably raining out. Jaskier kept singing and strumming his lute.

It was past midnight when the bar closed and patrons either nursed their drinks slowly so they could stay longer, or finished quickly so they could toss another coin at his feet before leaving. Jaskier settled, going for a slower but no less jovial feeling. He felt like he simply could not step wrong.

When the last patron left and Jaskier gathered his coin, he was still flushed and grinning. He thanked the barman, tossed a coin of large denomination to the pretty serving girl, and went upstairs to that lovely bed. He wasn’t at all tired yet, but he wanted to clean up as much as possible and try on those silks. He wanted to look good. He wanted to look as confident as he felt.

Geralt was already in bed, apparently asleep. That was fine. Jaskier shucked his clothing down to his underwear, wiped off as much sweat and dirt as he could, and slid on the linens and silks, his hands trembling. Looking down at himself, he realized that he cut quite a dashing figure. He grinned giddily. Now he was the equal of any other musician on the Continent. What had Geralt called him? Bard?

Jaskier the Bard.

Yes. That felt good.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt woke because he heard the rustling of silk, which he was very unused to. His nose told him it was Jaskier, smelling excited, while his ears caught the sound of accelerated heartbeat. Maybe he was trying on his new clothes. Humans were so odd about clothes.

Geralt opened one eye just a little to make sure Jaskier was alright, because that amount of happiness was rather unwarranted for just a new outfit.

Jaskier was smoothing the doublet down carefully, grinning like an idiot. He started twisting around, trying to see as much of himself as he could, and Geralt held in a derisive snort. What a peacock.

He looked so happy.

Geralt closed his eye again and tried to go back to sleep.


	2. Unwelcome Truths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so thrilled at the amount of interest shown for this!! Here is chapter two!

“Do you like them?”

Geralt said “Hm,” and kept gathering the things needed for his next job.

Jaskier was a little disappointed by this lack of communication, but he was also far too excited to let this opportunity pass. Geralt had insisted Jaskier take a bath first thing after waking up before putting on his new clothes again, while Geralt went and took care of a second contract he’d been given that was best done in the early night rather than the darkest hours. It had been very strange, because Jaskier had never had a _bath_ before; Geralt had rolled his eyes and told Jaskier what to do to be clean, then stomped out.

And Jaskier had been honestly surprised at how _good_ it had felt, scrubbing so hard he was nearly raw, washing his hair and face and neck and feeling brighter and softer. The water was filthy when he got out, but he dried off eagerly and went to look at himself in the tiny mirror.

Oh… he’d never known his hair had soft reddish-brown tints in it. He’d thought it was just dull and dark. But no, he turned his head this way and that, and saw that when the light hit it just right, it was warm and shiny. And though it was straight and floppy, it had more… more puff to it, when it was clean.

He scrambled eagerly into his new clothes, breathing fast at this wonderful development, and nearly skipped downstairs.

The barman looked at him in surprise. Jaskier grinned and lied, “These are special. I only wear them after a bath.”

The barman nodded in understanding. “Aye, like festival clothes. Well, if you’d like, you can set up by the fire again after dinner.”

“Thank you, sir!”

Jaskier had an even better night, entertaining the tavern, and he laughed but gently rebuffed any offers to take him to bed. He didn’t want to have sex, not after realizing that the only person who didn’t hurt him even by accident was Geralt. He’d choose his time to try again, and that time wasn’t then.

Geralt was back before midnight, went upstairs and presumably had his own bath, then returned downstairs to sit in a corner and drink, watching Jaskier. When the serving girl came up to Jaskier and gave him some cider for his throat, he scooped up some coins and handed them to her, and said, “Dinner for the broody one, I don’t think he’s eaten enough today.”

“Aye, sir,” she replied, and wove her way through the crowd to the kitchen. Jaskier continued playing and singing, but he also made sure to watch sharply. Thankfully, Geralt was not cheated of his meal, though he did look surprised, before nodding and presumably muttering a gruff thank you before beginning to eat. Smug in his victory of procuring Geralt food, Jaskier put a burst of joy into his next song.

At some point, benches and tables were shoved out of place, and people started dancing to Jaskier’s merry jigs. Someone brought out a pipe, and more people drummed on the tables, and the atmosphere was downright festive. Jaskier eventually had to stop—he could feel midnight passing, and he didn’t want to keep these people too long. They should get their own sleep. Laughter, groans of protest, more shouted offers of private dances, Jaskier had to call back merrily that he was flattered but indisposed. No one left without a smile.

Jaskier scooped up his coin, humming happily, and bought what was, to him, lunch. The last of the soup, some stale bread, but it was heaven compared to what he’d had in the past. He helped shove the tables and benches back into place, cleaned the floor, and went upstairs cheerfully.

Geralt was sitting on the floor, caring for his armor. Jaskier carefully took off his silks and folded them and put them away, grinning at the feeling of smooth fabric against his rough hands. He refused to take off his braies and shirt and put on his old ones, though. He felt too good in the new.

“How was the hunt?” he asked Geralt, flopping on the bed and tucking his hands behind his head, on that soft, soft mattress.

“Hmm. Better.”

“I got more money.” Just the idea sent a thrill through Jaskier. “Do you need anything?”

“No.”

There was a silence, as Jaskier stared at the ceiling and composed in his head. If only he could write these songs down! Maybe someone could teach him.

“Laundry,” Geralt said suddenly.

“Oh! Yes!” Jaskier popped upright and scurried around scooping up discarded garments, his and Geralt’s. A quick sniff and he decided the silks were clean enough. Funny, he was sure he’d spilled some cider down his front, but there were no stains. Magic silk? Probably. He didn’t mind at all.

Finally he dumped the small heap by the door, and plonked his purse on the small nightstand. “You’ll be up in the morning?” he asked Geralt.

“Yes,” Geralt grunted.

“Alright, you can use my money to pay for laundering.” Jaskier looked out the window, restless and unusually energetic. “Gods, what do I do _now_?”

He hadn’t really expected an answer, but Geralt gave him one, anyway. “Exercise. You’ll tire yourself out and be doing something productive.”

“How do I do that?” Jaskier asked blankly.

Geralt sighed heavily and stood. Then he walked in a circle around Jaskier, inspecting him. Jaskier wanted to tense up, but this was Geralt. He wouldn’t hurt Jaskier, and he would say something if he wanted to touch Jaskier.

“Push-ups,” Geralt said suddenly. “Sit on the floor and watch.”

Jaskier sat, and watched in bewilderment as Geralt crouched, then planted his hands on the floor and straightened his legs out, bracing his toes. And then he pushed his upper body up with his arms, keeping his whole body straight, then lowered himself down until his elbows were at right-angles. He repeated this procedure four more times, then let his legs relax and sat up on his heels. “Your turn,” he said.

Jaskier frowned, and tried. Geralt repositioned his hands, then went and moved his feet, then came back around to kneel beside Jaskier and say, “Push.”

Jaskier did, clenching his jaw, and managed to make it all the way up and hold for half a second before his elbows gave and he fell with a heavy thump and a muffled “Oof!” His arms, already a little tired from carrying his lute, did not like this new game.

“Good,” Geralt said. “Again.”

Jaskier only managed three of the ‘push-ups’ before his arms gave out completely and he just laid on floor, panting a little. His stomach ached, for some reason, and the backs of his legs felt shaky.

“Hm. Better than I expected.” Geralt stood. “But not good. We’ll try from the beginning.”

The beginning, as it turned out, was doing the same pressing with his arms, but against a wall. It still hurt a little, and he still ached when Geralt told him to stop for good, but it was much easier than the floor ones.

“Do those whenever you’re feeling restless,” Geralt ordered. “You can do them against any wall, as long as the footing’s flat.”

“Trees?” Jaskier asked, rubbing his aching arms.

“No, it has to be a flat surface so your hands are placed right. Pull-ups can be done on trees, though.”

“What’s a pull-up?”

“Grab something above your head—safer and works better if it’s round and you can turn your hands palm-inwards—and pull yourself up. You probably can’t do very many, but with all that lugging a lute around, I expect you to be able to do fifteen push-ups in two weeks.”

Jaskier opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Geralt had a certain set to his chin and his eyes were narrowed a certain way, and Jaskier decided it was probably wiser to accept Geralt’s attempts to strengthen him up. Then he thought of something.

“Can you teach me to fight?” he asked.

Geralt blinked, frowned, then nodded. “Not tonight, though,” he said. “I’ll get you a knife, too.”

Jaskier’s heart, already beating hard, gave an extra heavy thump. He couldn’t think of what to say, so he grinned. And then, because he really didn’t know what else to do, he grabbed Geralt’s hands and dragged him to the bed. Geralt seemed extremely surprised, until Jaskier kissed him.

It was very nice. So gentle, so careful. An exploration, not a taking. How could anyone think Geralt was scary or a monster? He was so gentle. Jaskier tried to be gentle back, touching him where it didn’t hurt, kissing him lightly, feeling out his edges and finding that they were softer, more relaxed, than he was used to.

They didn’t actually have sex. They just… explored. Jaskier let Geralt’s hands roam wherever they pleased, relaxing under that careful touch. This. He liked this. He never wanted to lose this.

Dawn crept up faster than he liked. He fell asleep warm, happy, and safe.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt was a little rattled to look at Jaskier’s sleeping face and see contentment there. No, not rattled—severely disturbed. Because no one was supposed to be content in his arms. No one was supposed to trust him enough to let this happen.

But no one was supposed to touch him with no ulterior motive, either. It was like Jaskier was thanking him, thought Geralt didn’t know what for. And that burning need for touch was… sated, for once. He wasn’t bitter and ashamed and miserable; he was pleasantly warmed. And _that_ was the most alarming part.

Slowly, carefully, Geralt extracted himself from the bed, and put on his shirt again. Well, he thought it was his, until he raised his hands to lace the collar and felt delicate texture instead of rough, plain linen. He looked down, surprised, and realized it was Jaskier’s shirt. But it fit. Yes, the chest was a bit small, but it fit very well. It smelled nice. Like blackberries, and cherries, and Jaskier’s own scent.

Geralt took it off again with trembling hands and dragged on his own shirt. Blood, sweat, and harsh soap. He much preferred Jaskier’s clothing.

He put on his armor and hesitated on whether to bring or leave his swords… He wasn’t leaving the town, though. He was just going to scour the market and shops for supplies.

But what if someone broke in and stole them? Money could be earned again, but how the hell was he supposed to replace a silver sword in this ass-end of beyond? So he sighed heavily and slung them on his back, before grabbing his own purse and attaching it firmly to his belt. Jaskier had said to use his money for laundering, but he’d already bought Geralt food. Geralt would repay him by getting their clothes cleaned.

When he payed the innkeeper to find a laundress, the innkeeper asked, rather bewildered, “How long does he sleep?”

“Hours,” Geralt grunted, not wanting to be more specific. But, just to be careful, he said, “Light sleeper, though.”

The innkeeper nodded and accepted his coin.

The market was wary of him, and someone hissed “Butcher,” behind him while he paid for some dried apple slices for the road, but he kept complete control over himself and did not react.

Then, when he was purchasing some herbs that he hadn’t been able to find growing wild, the seller asked suddenly, “Didn’t you come in with that bard?”

Geralt tensed a little. Would they throw Jaskier out if he was known for traveling with a Witcher? It didn’t matter, they had money, it was fine. So he said, “Yes.”

“He… seems to like you.”

Geralt shrugged, uncomfortable, and took his packet of herbs and walked away.

But the mood of the market seemed to shift, quite suddenly, and instead of hostility, there was confusion. Still fear, of course. But no one spat on him, no children hurled rocks, and he wasn’t cheated when he purchased some vegetable oil to use as a base for his own concoctions.

Huh.

It was mid-morning when he returned to the inn and went upstairs to hide his purchases. Jaskier was still dead asleep, but still content. Geralt wanted to touch him, not because he was desperate, but because… because…

He left to see if the blacksmith knew how to make crossbow quarrel heads.

Geralt was lucky; the blacksmith did indeed know how to make heads to his specifications, and even offered to get his son, the fletcher, to make new quarrels, so Geralt didn’t have to worry about prying and re-gluing. Geralt hesitated. “How much?” he asked finally.

The blacksmith shrugged. “His wife was in a very good mood last night, and they both say it was because of the bard. So I’ll knock the price down on the heads, and he’ll give you a good price on the shafts.”

Geralt did not question this, only muttered a gruff thank you and paid half for the heads in advance. That bargain Jaskier had made must’ve been pretty strong, for him to have such power that complete strangers were willing to give his traveling companions discounts.

The only problem was… now they had to stay. It would take time to make the quarrels, and Geralt had literally nothing to do all day and night. Restless after leaving the blacksmith’s yard, Geralt looked up and down the street, tapping his fingers against his leg. What now?

He trudged back to the inn, thinking hard.

The smell of stew hit his nose when he entered, and he realized. Of course. Food. Meat. Hunting. Humans were always hungry, and at this time of year, he seemed to recall that hunting was harder for humans, as animals went to ground, preparing for winter. Geralt was a better hunter than any human. He could bring food to the inn, and they might let them stay for a while longer, long enough for the quarrels to be finished.

He should ask, first.

He didn’t have to think of a way to broach the subject, because the innkeeper was already complaining to the barman about how the butcher only had chicken because there was some blight going through cows and none of the farmers were selling. Geralt walked over and asked, “Is venison a substitute?”

Both men blinked at him, intimidated. Then the innkeeper nodded.

“I’ll hunt if you let us stay four more nights.”

The innkeeper opened his mouth, then shut it, thoughtful. Then he grinned and nodded. “Aye, that’s a fair trade. Bring the kills to the butcher first.”

Geralt nodded too, relieved slightly. There. They could stay, he’d have something to do that would keep his skills sharp, and Jaskier wouldn’t go hungry.

~~~\0/~~~

Jaskier woke at dusk calm and content. Then he brightened, because he could hear Geralt’s footsteps in the hall. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, and smiled at Geralt when he entered the room.

“Good evening!” Jaskier said happily.

“Hm,” Geralt replied, tossing a pile of neatly-folded fabric—their clothes, presumably—on the little table.

Jaskier slid out of bed and noticed that his shirt, which he last recalled being on the floor, was laid out on the foot of the bed. He picked it up and put it on anyway, and caught a whiff of scent that was so decidedly _Geralt_. So his Witcher had picked up his shirt for him? That was kind.

“Did you eat?” he asked Geralt.

Geralt nodded. “Stew tonight,” he muttered.

“Excellent!” Jaskier hovered between whether to wear his new clothes or old. His eyes dragged longingly to the silks… but he was hungry, and stew was messy. So he sighed and dragged on his old trousers, which at least were comfortable. After a moment of thought, he shrugged and didn’t changed his shirt. This one was just fine, wasn’t it?

He grabbed his lute, waved to Geralt, and skipped out to play for an appreciative audience.

~

The last guest had left. Jaskier helped clean up and went back to his and Geralt’s room, still thrumming with energy. Usually he’d be walking. Not doing so made him flex his fingers and tap his foot and want to dance.

So that’s what he did when he noticed that Geralt wasn’t in. He took off his shirt, did five of the wall push-ups, and then started dancing. He wasn’t sure how he knew how to dance, but he did, his feet finding the rhythm and his arms going through the motions as if he had a partner and he closed his eyes and tried to imagine dancing with someone—and all he could think of was Geralt, that body he knew so well moving to meet Jaskier’s, then pushing away, then coming back together in a swirl like they were at some fancy party—he could almost see the courtly crowd and the other dancers, almost smell the candles and perfumes and wine, almost feel Geralt’s hand in his as they did another complicated step…

“What are you doing?”

Jaskier’s eyes snapped open and he stumbled, the music in his head coming to an abrupt, screeching halt. He caught himself and turned to grin giddily at Geralt in the doorway, looking mystified.

“Dancing,” Jaskier replied simply. “It looks better with a partner, though. Where were you?”

“Hmm. I was walking.”

There was surely more to it than that. But Jaskier didn’t ask, just nodded and went to splash water on his face and neck. He liked having a clean face. He hadn’t really thought about it before that lovely bath.

The sun was still several hours away. Jaskier sat on the bed and watched as Geralt took off his swords, armor, and boots. He looked tired. Jaskier frowned and flexed his hands on the edge of the mattress, then finally asked, “Do you sleep?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you need sleep now?”

“No.”

“But you’re tired.”

No reply. Jaskier frowned harder. Then, as Geralt started to settle on the floor in the corner, Jaskier rose and walked over to grab his arm and attempt to drag him to the bed. Geralt didn’t budge, frowning right back. Jaskier rolled his eyes and tugged again.

“You’re tired,” he said flatly. “So lay down and sleep. It’s not like anyone is going to attack the big scary Witcher at night, when he’s at his scariest.”

Geralt continued to frown. Jaskier scowled, and after another minute, tugged again, harder.

“You’re not going to stop until I do, are you,” Geralt muttered, and let Jaskier pull him to the bed. He also let Jaskier pull the blanket over him, though he looked deeply disgusted by this gesture. Jaskier patted his shoulder heartily and went to sit down at the table, lute in his lap, playing his favorite lullaby. Geralt turned over on his side facing away from Jaskier. That was fine. Jaskier kept playing, smiling a little when he saw Geralt’s shoulder relax. Then the rest of him started relaxing, until he looked as boneless as a sleepy puppy under the thin blanket. Good.

Jaskier played until the sky began to lighten. Then he yawned, set his lute aside, and crawled into bed with Geralt, back-to-back, and fell deeply asleep.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt woke to thin, watery light and Jaskier pressed against his back. This was strangely alright, except for one thing.

To get out of bed, he would have to crawl over Jaskier.

He rubbed his eyes, scowling, but reassured himself that nothing woke Jaskier. He probably wouldn’t even notice Geralt’s presence or lack thereof. So he sighed and rolled on to his stomach in preparation for the escape.

Jaskier moaned very softly in his sleep, and actually moved. He reached behind himself, flailing a little, until his hand found Geralt’s shirt and grabbed it tightly. He would not be removed easily.

But damn it, Geralt needed to get up. He wanted to know if animals were around at dawn. He’d wandered the woods last night, making notes of animals and creatures available for hunting, but that was at night. So he wriggled around in a very undignified fashion and somehow slid out of his shirt, sitting up and resting on his heels. Jaskier frowned and mumbled unintelligibly and turned over, reaching and finding nothing. Then, apparently realizing Geralt really wasn’t there, his arms curled back in—taking Geralt’s shirt with them. Geralt watched, aghast, as Jaskier practically snuggled the fabric, breathing in deeply and sighing out in sleepy contentment.

Alright. So. He would just have to wear his other shirt.

Climbing over Jaskier wasn’t hard, but ignoring his little noises was. He sounded upset, like he’d lost something important… No, Geralt was just making that up. He put on his clean shirt, and his armor and swords, and by the time he was ready to leave, Jaskier had stopped making noise. He was still cuddling Geralt’s shirt, though.

On a whim, Geralt walked over and tucked Jaskier in, awkwardly. Then he fled.

He found deer-tracks easily in the woods, and followed them to a small herd. He got downwind of them, eyed them carefully, then brought up his crossbow and shot a doe who did not have a fawn. She dropped without a sound, and the rest of the herd shied and ran. Geralt quickly scrambled over and checked the deer; dead as dead. Perfect. He drew his knife and prepared to gut her (he’d heard humans didn’t like doing this themselves) but was distracted by the smell of humans. _Angry_ humans.

He held very still, and listened.

Muttering. Angry whispering. The wind changed, blowing scent towards him; three humans, males, whispering among themselves. Geralt didn’t wait around to let them get close enough to hear the words; he picked up the doe silently, slung her over his shoulder, and crept back into the woods, as far from the humans as possible. He circled around them and made his way back to the town. They might try to claim he had stolen their kill. Although they hadn’t been quiet enough to be hunters.

He reached the butcher’s shop. When he knocked, the door was opened by a sleepy-looking man whose eyes widened to see who was on his doorstep.

“The innkeeper said to bring this to you,” Geralt said, reluctantly.

“Oh,” the man said weakly. “Yes. Bring it in, then.”

The butcher’s shop was fairly clean, and smelled overpoweringly of blood and smoke and sausages. Geralt was led behind the counter, and allowed to take his quarrel back after setting the deer on a table for cleaning. He offered half-heartedly to help skin it, but the butcher shook his head and said, “I’ll have most of it brought over to the inn in a wink, Mr. Witcher.”

Geralt nodded and left, and as he was stepping out, he checked the position of the sun, to see if it was worth it to go out and maybe look for other prey. He’d seen some rabbit tracks…

“Hey! Witcher!”

He blinked and turned his head. The three angry men were approaching him. One had a spear. The others had bows. Geralt’s stomach dropped. Fuck.

“We hear you’re dragging a bard around with you,” sneered the man with a spear.

“I travel with a bard, yes,” Geralt replied, stepping away from the butcher’s shop. Best not to draw a fight to a man who did no harm to him.

“Did you kidnap him?” demanded one of the archers.

Geralt frowned. Where was this going? “No.”

“Then why would he want to be seen with you?” challenged the spearman.

Good question. “Ask him yourself tonight,” Geralt replied bluntly, and took a step back. All three took a step forward, and the archers lifted their bows. Ah, fuck. He sighed in resignation. “I’ll leave. I don’t want any trouble.”

All three men looked absolutely baffled by this, and the bows lowered slightly. “What?” said the spear man.

“I don’t want any trouble, so I’ll leave,” Geralt repeated, frowning back. “Isn’t that what you want?”

There were other townsfolk slowly coming out to see what the ruckus was. The butcher came out of his shop with blood on his apron and crossed his arms over his chest, scowling at the three men menacing Geralt.

“You three again,” the butcher said in a voice dripping with scorn and annoyance. “Are you going to threaten _every_ warrior who comes through here?”

“But he’s a Witcher,” the archer who hadn’t spoken yet protested weakly.

“Aye, and he’s done naught to harm anyone. He’s had plenty of time and all he’s done is kill animals and stay at the inn,” the butcher snapped back. “That bard he’s with is the _real_ problem, and even _he_ don’t warrant weaponry.”

Geralt was as speechless as the men who’d confronted him. Jaskier? A problem? Surely not. He had never taken anyone to bed, never hurt anyone. It was strange that anyone would stick up for Geralt, but it was even stranger to him, even more disconnected, to think of Jaskier as dangerous in any way. He was a good kid.

One of the archers swung his bow up, and Geralt stepped to the side as soon as he loosed, turning slightly so the arrow didn’t even graze him. It stuck in the road, and Geralt decided not to look away from these men again, not until they had gone away.

But the casualness of his dodge seemed to shake the three, and the bowman who hadn’t shot slunk over to the butcher, head down, looking very guilty. The butcher cuffed his ear and grabbed his shoulder, before telling the other two, “Go home, both of you. You’re naught but nuisances these days.”

The other two turned and trudged away like whipped dogs. Geralt looked back to the butcher, startled, but the man just nodded to him and dragged the young archer into his shop.

Slowly, feeling very baffled and slightly off-balance, Geralt turned away and went back to the inn, frowning. How very… strange.

The barman was yawning as he cleaned mugs. “Oh, g’morning, Witcher,” he said a little fuzzily. “How was hunting?”

Geralt shrugged. “Bagged a doe. Butcher will bring it over.”

“Ah, good, thank you.” Then the barman blinked, and stared at Geralt, who stared back. Finally, Geralt gave a little nod, and went upstairs, dizzy with confusion. People were being… decent. And he didn’t understand.

He took off his weapons and armor and boots and got into bed with Jaskier again, flinching as Jaskier immediately grabbed him and snuggled close, humming in contentment. He was still asleep. But he still knew when Geralt was there and when he wasn’t, and he seemed to want Geralt to be near. So Geralt settled his arm over Jaskier’s waist gently and laid quietly beside him, thinking.

~

Geralt had lunch downstairs ( _lunch_ , a fucking _luxury_ ) and then went back upstairs to darn his socks. He kept putting it off because he was very bad at darning, but it couldn’t wait. And it wasn’t like he was going to run into Eskel, who would trade sewing up slashes in fabric for sock-darning.

Jaskier was still asleep, but when Geralt walked over to check on him, his head automatically turned towards Geralt, and his fingers flexed. Geralt sighed and took off his shirt to wad it up into a ball next to Jaskier’s head, where it immediately became a secondary pillow, and got to work on his socks. When he was done, he grabbed Jaskier’s old shirt and darned the tiny holes in that, too, with the dull brown thread he usually saved for his socks. Black thread would look strange against fawn brown.

Then there was nothing else to do, so he did some exercises and counted the silver that the unknown fae had given him and used some charcoal from the tiny fireplace to write some math problems on the floor, erasing them with one of his armor-cleaning rags when he was done. He had always liked math. While Lambert struggled with division and Eskel forgot multiplication patterns, Geralt had _loved_ math as a kid, and did it just for fun between training and eating and playing with Eskel. Just after the Trials, Vesemir taught him basic geometry, and Geralt had eaten it up with a spoon.

And now, when Geralt was bored or stressed or needed to rest his body when his mind wouldn’t shut up, he did math. He still had to write out the more complicated equations, but it was something to do to pass time.

The sun slid down while he was absorbed in his mathematics, and when Jaskier stirred he barely registered it, stuck on how many times 74 went into 1,245,327. It was a decimal, he was sure…

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s sleepy voice wormed its way through his concentration. “What’re you doing?”

“Math,” he grunted, then made a triumphant noise and wrote 16,828.7 on the floor. There! This final problem, complete. He went over it one more time, just to see if he’d made any errors; he hadn’t, and was satisfied enough to wipe it all off and throw his piece of charcoal back in the fireplace. He sat back on his heels and looked up, and saw that Jaskier was clutching both of Geralt’s shirts to his chest as he half-hung off the bed to see better. He looked so soft and young with that expression of sleepy curiosity on his face.

“What’s math?” Jaskier asked.

“Numbers,” Geralt replied. “Counting is math. Money is math. Distances are math. Everything is numbers and that makes it math.”

Jaskier frowned a little, waking up more and more. “Huh. Strange. Why did you leave your shirts in bed?”

Geralt deigned not to answer and simply stood to put his rag away. Jaskier sighed heavily and sat up—and before Geralt could stop him, he put on one of Geralt’s shirts. It fit him nicely. Black was not his color, but the cut of the shirt looked good on him.

But it didn’t look _right_. Jaskier was… bright colors, and lace, and cheer. Plain black didn’t look right on him.

“Give those back,” Geralt sighed heavily, walking over.

“You can have this one,” Jaskier said magnanimously, handing over the shirt from that day. “Don’t worry, I’ll wear my new clothes so no one sees it.”

Geralt frowned. “Give it _back_ , Jaskier.”

“No,” Jaskier replied calmly.

Before Geralt could step closer and drag it off him, someone knocked on the door. Geralt snatched the shirt in Jaskier’s hands and put it on, tucking it in as he ran his fingers through his hair to settle it. Then he walked over and opened the door a little. “What,” he said flatly, before he got a good look and saw that it was the man who’d leveled a spear at him that morning. He tensed immediately and shifted subtly to block him.

But the spear-bearer just scowled and shoved a covered basket at him. The basket smelled like fresh pastry. “This doesn’t change anything,” he snapped. “You’re still not welcome here.”

Then he slunk away, smelling annoyed.

Geralt frowned, puzzled, and closed the door again, holding the basket. Then he brought it over to the table and pulled back the napkin on top.

Pączki, fresh and warm. And a lot of them. Geralt stared in surprise. What the fuck?

“Holy _fuck_.” Jaskier was suddenly at his side, picking one pastry up and sniffing it, looking absolutely delighted. Then he bit into it, and bliss took his face, even as filling dripped down his chin. “Haven’t had sweets in so long,” he mumbled around his mouthful, and devoured the pączki quickly.

Geralt picked one up too, and licked it in trepidation. The outside was fine… he couldn’t smell poison… and Jaskier was still alive and on his second. So he bit into it.

He was used to explosions of flavor on his delicate tongue; salty, bitter, metallic, sour. He was _not_ used to tart berries and overwhelming sugar in a lightly-sweetened bread crust. It was good. He ate his slowly, savoring it, as Jaskier went back for a third.

Then, when he realized that Jaskier was almost done with said third while Geralt was licking the filling off his fingers, he frowned and pushed Jaskier away. “You’ll get sick,” he said bluntly.

“But they’re good!” Jaskier whined, stuffing the last bit in his mouth. “One more, please?”

“No. I only got one.”

Jaskier huffed. “You eat too slow.”

“You eat too fast. Go get breakfast.”

“ _Fine_.”

Jaskier splashed his face with water, dried it, combed his hair with his fingers, and almost got out the door. Geralt blocked him and said, “Change your shirt. Now.”

Jaskier huffed and rolled his eyes, but stomped to the pile of clean clothes and swapped shirts. Geralt nodded and moved away from the door to let him pass.

It was several minutes after Jaskier left that Geralt actually began to wonder _why_ Jaskier would want to wear his shirt.

~~~\0/~~~

Jaskier was a little upset that Geralt wasn’t getting the hint, but maybe he just had to try harder.

No, not a little upset. _Very_ upset. He was so used to people being quick to assume, that Geralt’s stalwart refusal to do so himself was mystifying, irritating, and scary. When would the other shoe drop? When would Geralt get a clue and then say something about it?

Jaskier busied himself with food and music, and managed to push back the little nagging worry that Geralt was ignoring his hints on purpose. He noticed Geralt leave the inn, but he did his best to pretend he hadn’t. He just tried his best to enjoy the night.

And he managed, for a while. Jaskier managed to forget that Geralt hadn’t seemed to notice how Jaskier wanted him—not for sex, but just to be around. Just to be _with_. Sharing shirts was a novel idea, but sharing food, good, wholesome, delicious food—didn’t Geralt know how important that was? To share meals? To trust someone enough to let them have some of your food?

Focus on the music.

There was dancing, again. This time, when Jaskier was asked to join in, he laughed and did so, setting his lute down to join the dancers. He didn’t know how he knew all the right steps, but he did. He sang, too, never fully out of breath, though he quickly began to overheat. He felt his face, neck, and chest begin to flush with exertion, and sweat beaded on his face. Was the fire supposed to be that hot? Surely there weren’t enough people here to make the tavern this warm with pure body heat.

And very suddenly, he completely ran out of energy, stumbled, and fell on his bottom, gasping for breath. People were laughing—did he do something wrong? He got to his feet, shakily, and was herded to his seat by the fire, and given cold watered ale, and slapped on the back and shoulders. He smiled automatically, not wanting to make anyone angry, and sipped the ale, and began to feel dizzy. Heat… fear… why was he afraid? There was nothing wrong. He looked around, trying to think, but his head was full of song and the image of flames and he wasn’t sure what was happening…

The door slammed open, and someone screamed, “FIRE! They set the Witcher on fire!”

Everything snapped into clarity.

Jaskier did not think because there was no time to think. He surged to his feet and started running, squeezing past people and jumping over things and finally making it out the door. He didn’t need to search for the fire; it was right down the street, and there were people screaming, as four men with spears stood outside a ring of fire. In the middle of the fire was Geralt. Something shimmered around him, some kind of barrier, but it wouldn’t hold forever. And Geralt was swaying where he stood, injured perhaps?

The sight filled Jaskier with a rage he had never known he could feel. These—these _bastards_ were trying to kill the Witcher, _his_ Witcher, _his_ companion. He had laid claim to this man and they were _hurting him_.

He grabbed a walking stick that had been left by the door and charged.

When the rage faded, the four men were on the ground, and Geralt was staggering out of the ring of fire. Jaskier was shaking. He knew none of the men were dead, somehow, but they were out of the way now. And Geralt was hurt.

“I’m—fine,” Geralt gasped, before Jaskier could ask. “Tired. There were—drugs, in the...” And he collapsed. Jaskier dropped his impromptu weapon and lunged to catch Geralt, lowering them both to the ground gently. Someone had started a bucket chain, and others were dragging the men out of the way. Geralt was still breathing—that was good. Jaskier was still shaking—not good. But he shifted his grip so Geralt was leaning back on him, and held him close as the fire was slowly contained, then put out.

Somehow, when it was all over, Jaskier managed to heave Geralt up and half-carry, half-support him to the inn. People got out of their way. Geralt’s face was flushed from heat, and he was shivering. Burns? Was he burned? How did one care for burns? Jaskier pressed his lips together tightly and said nothing.

The barman cleared the way so they could limp up to their room. Jaskier was too focused on Geralt to thank him.

In their room, Jaskier lowered Geralt on to the edge of the bed, and let him grip Jaskier’s arms to keep upright, breathing shallowly through lips dry and cracked by heat. His cheeks and the tip of his nose looked puffy.

“What do you need?” Jaskier asked.

“Cool water,” Geralt rasped. “Not cold.”

Jaskier nodded and went straight to the jug of water on the stand with the basin. It wasn’t ‘cool’ exactly, but it was lukewarm. Wasn’t it? Jaskier poured it into the basin and blinked when a bit splashed on him and was actually on the edge of cold. He grabbed the towel as well and brought both to Geralt. The Witcher dunked the towel in the water and wrung it out over his head. Then he actually picked up the basin a little, leaned forward, and dunked his face. Jaskier held in a yelp and kept back, trembling with nerves. After four whole minutes, Geralt lifted his head, and wiped away the water dribbling down his neck and throat. His face looked better. A few deep breaths, and another dunk. Then he patted his face dry and mumbled, “Fuck. A drink.”

“Yes. Bath?”

“Cool water.”

“Yes.”

Jaskier went downstairs. The innkeeper looked anxious, and flinched when he saw Jaskier. Jaskier did not wonder, only asked, “Can we have water brought up for a bath? He’s overheating. Also something to drink.”

“Aye, sir,” the innkeeper said, and scurried into the kitchen. Jaskier noticed that the tavern was deserted, and was vaguely surprised; but his lute was still in the corner, so he went and fetched it. When he reached the bottom of the stairs again, the innkeeper was back, with another jug of what smelled like watered ale and a mug. Jaskier slung his lute over his shoulder and took both jug and mug, murmuring a distracted thank you and hurrying back upstairs.

Geralt had taken off his armor and boots, and was shivering with his eyes closed as he sat on the bed. Jaskier poured a mug of ale—it was cool, which was good—and brought it to Geralt. “Drink,” Jaskier said.

Geralt opened his eyes, and took the mug, drinking slowly. His face was still slightly puffy, and he’d pulled his hair back and tied it in a tail to keep it off his neck. He was flushed all over, though the face and hands were the worst. Gods, how had Jaskier not noticed his hands? Even through his gloves, his hands were red and didn’t want to move fully.

Thuds and curses. Water being brought up, and a tub. Jaskier opened the door and watched carefully as the innkeeper and his sons set to filling the bath with the water in their buckets. Nothing amiss. When they left for more water, Jaskier went back to Geralt, and refilled his mug.

The bath was ready quickly. Geralt didn’t tell Jaskier to leave so he could bathe in peace; instead, he lurched up with Jaskier’s help, swayed for a moment, and then looked at him and said, “Just… stand still and don’t look.”

So Jaskier braced himself and stood still, keeping his eyes closed. Geralt had to lean on him quite heavily at points as he undressed slowly and unsteadily, but Jaskier did not move, nor did he touch Geralt. This was too important to break the trust with careless hands.

When Geralt started walking to the bath, Jaskier peeked just enough to watch and make sure he didn’t fall over. He was pink all over. Well, the fire had been in a solid ring around him…

Rage flared in Jaskier’s chest, and he had to squeeze his eyes shut and clench his jaw to fight back the anger clawing at his throat. He listened closely, and when he heard Geralt’s quiet shuddering sigh of relief, as well as the splash of displaced water, he opened his eyes.

“Do you need anything else?” he asked.

Geralt slid down in the water and leaned his head back. “No,” he said finally, staring at the ceiling. He looked resigned.

Jaskier hesitated. “Do you want me to leave?” he asked.

“...no.”

“Alright.” Jaskier went and sat at the table, hugging his lute to his stomach. He wanted to watch his Witcher closely, to make sure he was alright, but that was… too much. They weren’t to that level of trust. Geralt may want him to stay, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be stared at.

“Why did they try to burn you?” spilled from Jaskier’s lips without thinking.

Geralt sighed. “They didn’t.”

“But… the fire?”

“I set it. To keep them back.” Geralt splashed his face and ran his hands over his hair. “There were… drugs, though. Some kind of herb. In the pączki. Made me… shaky. I messed up the signs.” Geralt splashed himself again, hesitated, then looked up at Jaskier. He looked so tired, so sad. Jaskier wanted to touch him, smooth away the hard lines, wash off the sadness, wipe away the resignation. “Thank you,” Geralt said, very quietly, very gruffly.

“You are welcome,” Jaskier replied, just as quiet.

They were both silent after that. Geralt’s skin turned porcelain-pale again; the puffiness went down, though his cheeks and nose were still pink. His eyes cleared. When he was cooled off, he grunted, “Bring that towel,” and Jaskier did. Maybe he couldn’t touch Geralt, make him happy, make him forget—but he could be helpful, support him. Be gentle to him.

Geralt didn’t say anything when he stumbled getting out and Jaskier automatically caught him around the waist, but he did glare, and Jaskier let go quickly and backed away.

“You stink,” Geralt grunted.

“I… got too warm while dancing,” Jaskier replied. He was almost surprised that now, he felt quite cool, as if he’d been the one in the bath. His clothes felt stiff and itchy from sweat. “What now?”

“Sleep. Go get some food; dawn is soon.”

“Alright.”

Jaskier didn’t want to leave, but Geralt obviously wanted him gone, so Jaskier went downstairs and asked quietly for something to eat. The innkeeper gave him some bread and cheese, and some strips of smoked meat. Jaskier thanked him and sat at the table nearest the stairs and ate slowly. When he felt the pull of dawn, he returned his plate and went back upstairs.

Geralt was sprawled across the whole bed, dead asleep, on top of the blankets. He was only wearing his braies, which was barely more than a loincloth—Jaskier’s cheeks burned at the sight. Geralt looked unbelievably vulnerable, despite the abundance of scars proving that he was nearly invincible.

Jaskier made sure the door was locked, then pulled Geralt’s blanket out of his pack and settled on the floor in the corner. It was no worse than beds he’d had in the past. And Geralt deserved that soft mattress to himself.

~

Jaskier woke in the bed. Geralt was moving around, packing.

“We’ve outstayed our welcome,” he grunted when Jaskier stretched carefully. “I’ve got my crossbow bolts, you’ve stripped everyone of spare coin, and the men have told everyone that I attacked them.”

Jaskier struggled upright. The sun was down and the light was fading, but he still felt groggy. “But that’s just not true,” he protested. “They weren’t even touched.”

Geralt snorted. “You think anyone cares about that?” he retorted bitterly, slinging his saddlebags over his shoulder. “Get up. We need to leave.”

Jaskier got up and grabbed his things and followed Geralt downstairs.

When they stepped outside of the inn, there was a crowd gathered. Jaskier did not glare, but he did pointedly ignore them all as he followed Geralt to the stable where Roach waited.

“You can stay, bard,” someone called hopefully.

“No,” he threw over his shoulder flatly, and turned away again.

They left the town in the cool dusk, and Jaskier ignored his stomach when it growled plaintively. He did not want food, not if it was made by people who turned on Geralt when he was hurt.

They walked for a long time. Jaskier’s temper cooled, and he kept wanting to touch Geralt, but he knew it would be unwelcome, so he held back.

But then he couldn’t help it. His teeth clenched, his lip curled, and he muttered, “Fucking ungrateful bastards.”

“That’s life, Jaskier,” Geralt replied tonelessly.

“I’m still angry at them.”

A small sigh. “Where are you staying for the winter?” Geralt asked tiredly.

“Wherever you are,” Jaskier answered, surprised that that was even a question.

“No. You can’t come with me.”

Jaskier gaped at Geralt, astonished. Geralt didn’t look at him. “Why not?” Jaskier demanded.

“Because you’d die,” Geralt replied flatly.

Jaskier wanted to be angry. He wanted to huff and be offended. But instead he just felt a crushing sadness, and couldn’t find the words for _why_ , not even in his own head. So he looked down at his feet, and was silent. He really wanted to cry, but what if Geralt thought he was trying to be manipulative?

He would, though. If he thought crying would make Geralt let him come, he would. But crying would just be weakness, so he kept silent.

They reached another town. The guards yelled that they had no use for a Witcher, so Geralt nodded and moved on. Jaskier walked with him, without even a shadow of doubt. If he couldn’t spend a winter at Geralt’s side, then he would spend as much time as possible with him until then.

The next village two days later had no inn, but the headman let Jaskier and Roach stay in his home while Geralt went and finished a contract. Jaskier waited anxiously for Geralt to return, but the sun was rising and he was getting drowsy when he heard yelling. He tried to get up to find out what the fuss was about, but he just couldn’t. He was too tired. Maybe Geralt could carry him out of the village and tie him to Roach when they’d left.

He woke at dusk and went to the front room, where the headman sat muttering with the blacksmith and the priest. They all looked up, and Jaskier already knew what they were going to reply to his question with.

“Where’s the Witcher?” he asked.

“Gone,” grunted the headman. “What did he dose you with? You wouldn’t wake up all day.”

Anger flared in Jaskier’s stomach, and he snapped, “He didn’t dose me, I was _cursed_ , that’s why I travel with him. When did you kick him out, and which direction did he take?”

All three older men paled. “North,” the blacksmith said weakly, as the priest muttered a quick prayer. “He went north.”

“Thank you.” Jaskier stomped back to the guest room, gathered his things, and left that village in a red fog of rage.

He walked all night, but he couldn’t find Geralt on the road. He might have gone into the forest, he might have gone into the hills—Jaskier didn’t know, and he felt fear and dismay tightening in his gut, as he kept walking. Dawn was approaching when he spotted a fire through the trees. Without thinking, he plunged into the forest, not even bothering to wonder if this could be a traveler other than Geralt. It had to be Geralt. It had to be.

“Jaskier?”

It was.

“Thank the gods,” Jaskier gasped, stumbling through the trees and into the small clearing Geralt had claimed. The Witcher was already standing and walking towards him. “I thought I lost you.”

He then collapsed into Geralt’s arms, sighed in relief, and passed out.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt selfishly decided to stay put for a day.

Roach enjoyed this rest, at least, dozing when she wasn’t eating. Geralt sat on the ground with Jaskier’s head in his lap, Jaskier’s bag of clothes tucked under like a pillow. He was troubled by Jaskier’s words. ‘I thought I lost you’. What kind of sentiment was that for a human to have for a Witcher?

And they would have to part soon. They were entering mountain territory.

There was a small city with a large court just a night’s walk away. If they reached there, Geralt could leave Jaskier behind and get to Kaer Morhen on his own before Jaskier could catch up.

His jaw clenched, indecision roiling in his gut. He didn’t want to just abandon Jaskier, didn’t want to send him seeking when he could easily be harmed; despite the bargain with the fae, he was still just a soft, vulnerable human. And what if he found the way up the mountains? He would freeze to death on the trail, or be eaten, or fall. Geralt didn’t know why he felt such a strong duty to Jaskier, but he did. He’d pulled this boy from a place that was obviously cruel to him, and abandoned him once, leading to his being driven from place to place, searching for shelter or food. Could he truly abandon him again?

No. He couldn’t. Alright, arguing it would have to be.

Geralt stroked the hair back from Jaskier’s forehead tentatively. He was so young. So breakable. He shouldn’t tie himself to a Witcher. He deserved to be safe and cared for.

Geralt was trembling. He wanted to do the protecting. Surely he could keep Jaskier safe better than a hundred well-trained humans.

But that was weakness. He swallowed hard and squeezed his eyes shut. It was weakness and cruelty and selfishness, to want to drag Jaskier into this life. Jaskier was just a boy. It didn’t matter that he was the first person since Geralt’s family to touch him without being paid. It didn’t matter that he seemed fearless these days, trusting Geralt as no one ever had. He was just a human boy who deserved the company of his fellows.

The city. Jaskier could stay in the city. He’d be so happy there he’d forget Geralt entirely.

That hurt.

But it was the right thing to do.


	3. Parting is Such Sorrow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hi I have returned please accept some silliness that was lost in my hundreds of folders

Jaskier argued as vigorously as he could, but Geralt refused to budge. Jaskier held back tears with a monumental effort, but it choked his voice, so he just stopped talking. Hanging back, behind Geralt, he allowed himself a bit of crying. He shouldn’t be surprised. He was a burden, an annoyance. Of course Geralt wouldn’t want him around. Geralt was using the excuse of ‘you’ll be safer away from me’ to let Jaskier down gently—or to absolve himself of guilt.

Jaskier could hate him for that. But not easily.

When they got to the city, Jaskier’s tears had dried up. Geralt didn’t want him. Fine. Jaskier could work past that. He could build a life without Geralt. He hated this forever-traveling life anyway. It was hard and scary and he just wanted to be safe.

He was safe with Geralt.

But Geralt didn’t want him.

They got a room and baths at an inn. Jaskier scrubbed every inch of himself ruthlessly, trying to scrape off the misery that seemed to cling to his skin as well as choke his lungs. He barely managed some bread and cheese before the sun began to rise; then he went to bed, fully expecting to wake up alone and with only his own bag and lute remaining.

Instead, he woke up to the soft sound of a whetstone against a blade.

He opened his eyes and looked, and stared. Geralt was sitting in the single chair in the corner, sharpening his sword. He wasn’t wearing his armor. So he wasn’t preparing to go hunt. What the fuck?

Jaskier sat up, slowly, and rubbed his eyes with both hands. The whetstone paused.

“The innkeeper is looking for a resident bard,” Geralt said tonelessly. Then he went back to sharpening.

Jaskier nodded and slid out of bed, fetching his fae-clothes. The silk had changed colors subtly, and the lace on the shirt was different. Magic. He didn’t really care.

When he was dressed, he picked up his lute and left. He couldn’t bring himself to say goodbye. Geralt didn’t like displays of emotion, anyway, and Jaskier wasn’t sure he wouldn’t cry if he said something.

So he went downstairs, charmed the innkeeper, and entertained the crowd for the night. It was a big inn with a big public room, and Jaskier did his best to reach every corner without being obnoxious. People sang along and kept rhythm by stomping or pounding on the table, and it was a successful night, really. So why did Jaskier still feel like a failure?

Food, drink, helping clean up, and then… well. He had a purse with some money in it. Why stay here for the rest of the night?

He went upstairs and set his lute in his room. Geralt’s bags were gone. Everything was gone. Except for something silver and shiny on the bed. Jaskier walked over to it, frowning, and picked it up.

A ring. A silver ring, with feathers etched on it.

Jaskier stared at it. Then his face crumpled and he had to sit down and breathe for a minute. No goodbyes. But a gift was fine? His thoughts were in a whirlwind, and all he could catch clearly was that he should give it away, or sell it, or—

He slid it on his right index finger. It fit perfectly.

That made his thoughts and emotions settle. Maybe Geralt disliked him. Maybe Geralt thought he was annoying or slowed him down or was in the way. But he’d still said goodbye. In a silent, lasting way—like himself—he’d said goodbye.

Jaskier sat quietly for several minutes, letting himself settle more. Then he scooped up his purse and left, locking the door firmly behind him.

There was not much to do at night. Two brothels, a multitude of taverns and alehouses, an opium den, and a night-market that appeared to be all stolen goods. Jaskier breezed through the market with his hand clamped over his purse, looking around curiously. There seemed to be a lot of stalls selling “trinkets”: jewelry, figurines, religious iconography, handkerchiefs and stockings, even a stall dedicated entirely to spoons. It was actually quite interesting. So these were the stolen goods that could be openly sold? Well, if Jaskier ever needed a gold tasting-spoon, he’d know where to come.

A few prostitutes eyed him, taking in the fine clothes, but deciding, from the slender state of his purse, that he wasn’t worth it. He didn’t mind. He’d hate to waste their time.

A beggar was offering to read fortunes. Jaskier decided to take her up on the offer, and crouched down near her. “How much?” he asked curiously.

She stared at him, wide-eyed. “Three coppers,” she said.

Triple the price she’d been calling out earlier. Jaskier pursed his lips, then shrugged and dug out three coppers for her. She made them vanish into her shawl, and grabbed his free hand.

The faintest tingle ran up Jaskier’s arm, and his eyebrows rose. Magic. This woman truly had magic. And she was wasting away in the streets… why? She looked so tired.

But then her eyes widened further, and she gasped in shock. “True love,” she whispered, “But—for  _ him _ ? A monster like  _ that _ ?”

Jaskier blushed, and his breath deserted him. “Who?” he asked.

“The Witcher. The White Wolf.”

Jaskier still couldn’t breathe, he was so startled. True love? No, surely not… “Anything else?” he asked her.

She licked her lips and nodded. “You will rise in greatness. Your gift will elevate you. You will never be a legend, but you will make people happy.”

Jaskier’s lips quirked in half a smile. “That’s all I want,” he said. “Is that all?”

“One more thing. The one who gifted you—she will come for you in ten years, and she will be furious. You will not evade her searchers. That is all.”

The beggar let go of his hand. Jaskier nodded slowly. “Thank you, madam,” he said, “That is… a lot to think about. Thank you.”

She nodded, and drew away. Jaskier stood, flipped her another copper coin, and walked away.

He returned to the inn long before dawn. He went up to his room, and sat on his bed, and thought.

~

The next evening he was rummaging in his bag for his clean shirt, when he realized there were weapons in there now.

Two worn but sturdy leather sheaths, meant to be fastened to his ankles and lower legs, and in them, knives of superior make. There were tiny runes carved into the blades, just like on Geralt’s sword. Jaskier sat on the floor for a long moment, choking on how much he missed Geralt already. A ring, two high-quality knives, true love… what else was Geralt going to leave for him? He put on the sheaths and then his boots, hiding the knives perfectly, and changed his shirt.

There were fine coats in the audience. Jaskier ignored them, and played and sang cheerful songs, including ones he had made up himself. Fishmonger’s Daughter was a huge hit, and he actually relaxed a little, losing himself in music. He liked that.

The trouble came when one of the well-dressed men stood up, approached him, and interrupted him.

“What is your name?” the man asked.

Jaskier paused, startled. “Jaskier,” he replied, seeing no reason to lie.

Growls of annoyance rose from the audience. Jaskier glanced around, and saw that there were many hostile gazes on the man.

“Why did you not present yourself to the lord of this city when you arrived?” the man demanded, his thin, sallow face annoyed.

“Because I didn’t want to,” Jaskier replied shortly. “I like it here.”

Four more men stood and crowded around Jaskier. He clutched his lute tightly. He knew how to brawl, but he wasn’t sure that was a good idea with these men.

“Surely you would prefer a place in a court,” the first man said.

“No,” Jaskier retorted flatly. “If you mean a permanent place, I must decline. I’m not cut out for a court.”

Two of the men stepped closer and grabbed his arms, dragging him to his feet. Loud, angry snarls came from every corner, and Jaskier saw people standing. “You don’t have the right to decline the lord’s invitation,” the first man sneered.

Jaskier planted his feet and resisted the tug of hands on his arms. “No,” he said again. “I refuse. Fuck you.”

The next ten minutes were a bit of a blur. A fight broke out, and Jaskier managed to dart through the crowd to the stairs, climbing them as fast as he could, and running to his room. He locked it once he was inside, shoved everything into his bag, slung said bag over his shoulder, and went to the window.

There was no way to climb down. He went cold. Fuck. No escape. How—

The door was smashed off its hinges, and when he whirled, four guardsmen stood there, swords drawn.

“You are ordered to come to the lord’s court,” one of the guardsmen rasped.

~

Jaskier was practically vibrating with anger.

Not only had the inn he’d been playing at been raided, he was now bound and thrown in a cart, surrounded by guardsmen. The rules of hospitality had been doubly violated. Once against a place and once against a person. This was unacceptable.

And they had hurt people. They had charged in and harmed visitors to the tavern. Jaskier was glad to be leaving; he didn’t want to bring further pain to the inn. But this was a poor bargain.

Hospitality. Bargains. Why was he so stuck on those concepts? They had  _ hurt _ people.

He was stubbornly silent as he was dragged out of the cart and through a courtyard, into a castle that loomed imposingly in the dark. Dawn in six hours.

The guardsmen shoved him into a cold little receiving room with uncomfortable chairs and ugly tapestries, and left. Jaskier stalked over and sat in the biggest, most comfortable chair, the one he assumed was for most important guests. He crossed one leg over the other and waited, back straight, hands clasped, staring at the opposite wall. He would  _ not _ let them intimidate him.

Eventually, the door opened, and someone entered the room. He did not look, continuing to stare at the wall.

“Hello, bard,” said an oily voice.

Jaskier said nothing, and still did not look.

A slight noise of annoyance, and then a man stepped in front of him. The man was dressed richly, his hair perfectly styled, his lips reddened by paint and his smile cold. He wore many rings and a necklace with a large green gem. Jaskier looked back coolly, unimpressed.

“I am Trebon,” the man said, still oily. “I apologize for the… rough treatment at the hands of the guards. It’s not every day the lord is refused.”

“You mean you, not the lord,” Jaskier replied coldly. “You are not him, nor are you a minor vassal, but you are perfectly turned out, and you arrived much too quickly to have just been roused from bed. You knew I was coming. You sent those men to bring me here.”

The cold smile slipped a little. “Ah. You’re a sharp one,” the man said sweetly. “Yes, I asked for you to be invited here. I did not expect you to refuse so… destructively.”

“I did not destroy anything,” Jaskier retorted, narrowing his eyes. “Your men grabbed me, and were grabbed in turn. I did not order for them to be removed. Nor did I order the patrons to make it difficult for your soldiers to drag me out of there.  _ You _ ordered to bring me here no matter what I said. You told your men to break heads to get me here. What do you want, Trebon? Not my music; any court magician worth their salt knows not to anger someone they wish to bring into the court. I was not brought for questioning; I would be in a more secure room for that. If you expect to buy my compliance with money, you are a fool. If you expect to bespell me and make me bend to your will, you are even more of a fool.”

Trebon’s smile was gone, as was his relaxed air. He pressed his lips together tightly and clenched his hands into fists. “You mock me,” he hissed.

Jaskier gave a small, cold smile. “Oh, no. This is just the truth. When I mock you, you will know.”

Five and half hours til dawn.

“I have more power than you will ever meet!” Trebon barked.

“Then prove it,” Jaskier riposted calmly. “Try something truly impressive. Call fire, or drown me, or raise someone from the dead.”

Trebon flushed, and said nothing.

Jaskier raised one eyebrow in a perfect mocking arch. “Prove it,” he repeated softly.

Trebon raised his hands, palm up, and fire sprang up around Jaskier. He didn’t even blink. It was very hot, and licked at his feet and legs hungrily, but he could still breathe just fine, and he was not actually hurt by the heat. He stared at Trebon calmly, waiting for him to either give up or give in; walk away, or kill Jaskier.

Trebon clenched his fists and dropped his hands, snarling. Jaskier waited.

“You will be left here until you learn respect!” Trebon snapped, and swept out of the room.

Jaskier laughed, amused in a twisted, bitter way. He leaned his head back, sighed, and settled in to wait for dawn.

Strangely, though… he did not sleep. He knew to the moment when the sun began to rise. But without the visual of the sun in this windowless, airless room, his body did not actually recognize the time. Huh. Interesting. But he was alone, for hours. He stood at one point, restless, and walked around the room for a while, thinking. How odd that they had only come after Geralt left. Or… maybe it was just that Trebon hadn’t heard of him until then. Still. After he had gotten out some of his energy, he sat again and bent down to draw his left knife. Carefully, he turned it in his hand and began sawing at the rope around his hands. He just needed to get through one loop…

Surprisingly, the blade was sharp enough that it cut through most of the rope easily. Then it was just a matter of slowly working to loosen the rope, then cut, then wiggle, then cut, then wiggle… until finally he could put his knife away and snap the final strand with just his own strength. He let the rope drop, and sighed in relief, stretching his wrists slowly. They weren’t chafed to bleeding, but he was definitely bruised. And his fingers ached when he flexed them in certain directions. Damn it. His hands were his livelihood. He could sing well enough, but what was the point of having a lute if he could barely hold it?

The door opened several hours after dawn. Jaskier rolled his head lazily to look. He was sitting at ease in his chair, which seemed to startled the guardsman who had opened the door. In swept Trebon, looking smug—until he saw Jaskier, unbound, relaxed, still unafraid.

Another man pushed Trebon out of the way, carefully. This man wore normal clothes, but of quite superior material: a leather vest, over a heavy white shirt and dun tunic; woolen leggings of deep green; intricately tooled leather boots; and a belt with a gold buckle and a very business-like sword. After an insolent moment of remaining firmly seated before his “host”, Jaskier stood and bowed.

“My lord Kristham, I presume?” he asked politely.

The man pursed his lips, looking like he wanted to smile, and nodded. “Indeed. You are the bard Trebon has taken a dislike to?”

“I must only assume so,” Jaskier replied, ignoring Trebon’s angry little noise.

“I apologize for his rudeness and unfair treatment of you,” Lord Kristham said gravely. “He is new and still doesn’t understand that Witcher companions are not weak little toys. I intended to ask for your presence this afternoon.”

“I thank you, sir. Unfortunately, that probably wouldn’t have been successful,” Jaskier replied ruefully. “I… do not wake up easily, and I prefer to sleep during the day.”

Lord Kristham nodded. “Understandable, since I hear you work primarily at night. I wished to ask if you would grace us with some entertainment tonight. It’s my eldest son’s birthday, and our head minstrel is currently ill.”

Jaskier had sort of expected such a request, but after Trebon, he hadn’t expected such politeness. He thought, then nodded. “I would honored, my lord.”

~

He was led to a guest room—not a room for very important guests, but still cozy. He made a test, after requesting a bath, of going to the window and closing the shutters and curtain. And without the light of day streaming in, though he was still tired, he no longer felt in danger of passing out.

The bath was brought. He thanked the servants politely, not missing the little awed glances, and locked the door behind them before stripping and sinking into the bath with a heavy sigh. He’d noticed that his fae-clothes had changed again; the cut of the doublet was different, as was the detailing. The colors had shifted, from red and blue to muted lavender and grey-blue. And the linen shirt was finer, with more intricate and delicate lace. His boots were lighter brown, subtly, though still stamped with dandelions. He shrugged and scrubbed, then shook out his brais—interestingly, while his body gathered dirt and dust and sweat, his fae-clothes just needed brisk shaking and they were like new—and put them on, and then the provided nightshirt. Then he opened the curtains and laid down, wrapped in the blanket, the light oozing around the shutters telling his mind and body that it was time to sleep.

He never dreamed, but when he woke, he had the vague sense that he had… lost something. Something important. What had he lost? He wasn’t sure. He sighed and got up. The sun was setting. It was time to see if he could find a meal.

He dressed, not forgetting his knives, grabbed his lute on a whim, and left the little room, closing the door softly behind him.

There was a guard outside his door. When Jaskier looked at him, the guard bowed slightly and said, “If m’lord will follow me, dinner is soon.”

Jaskier nodded and followed him, frowning a little. M’lord? Jaskier was just a bard. He wasn’t even gentry, let alone noble.

Then the guard led him into a very large and very empty dining hall, and directed to him to a small table where some tired men and women in clothes very similar to the servants’ were eating and talking quietly. Jaskier approached, his lute slung on his back, and smiled when they all looked up at him.

“Hello,” he said. “May I join you?”

“You’re the bard who stood up to Trebon,” one man blurted.

“Yes,” Jaskier replied.

Silently, they made space for him on a bench. A little confused, Jaskier sat, and smiled automatically when a servant hurried up and placed a cup, silverware, and a trencher in front of him. The servant fled before Jaskier could thank him.

Well, this was going to be a baffling night.

The food was actually very good, and after his first sip of unwatered wine, he decided to go easy on that stuff, because his head was  _ not _ used to it. It tasted alright, but it was too strong. He tried to be a good conversationalist, but the others seemed too cowed by him; that hurt quite a bit, really, and he didn’t really know why.

An upper servant marched over and snootily informed the musicians they’d better hurry up and finish so they could start playing soon. Jaskier drank some water, hummed quietly to get his throat open, and stood with the others. They formed to the side with their instruments, as other servants hurriedly cleaned off the table. The door opened, and rich people entered.

Jaskier expected to feel nervous. He expected to feel out of place. Instead, he felt settled. Ready. Confident. He was fae-touched, his music was good, and if he could rouse a tavern of dour farmers, he could entertain a bunch of snotty rich people. He watched the crowd coolly as they found their seats, and smiled as brightly as possible at Trebon, who was walking with an elegant woman who obviously did not enjoy his company. Trebon glared at him with fierce hatred. Jaskier held his eyes, and let his smile turn mocking. Trebon went purple with anger. The elegant woman dragged him to the high table, away from Jaskier.

It was a bad idea to fuck with magicians, but Jaskier didn’t care.

At first it was background music, the soft kind that people expected. Jaskier didn’t know the songs, so he played harmonies, following the threads of music and creating something a little different, but just close enough to be overlooked. He looked around sneakily, taking in the scene. No one seemed to be paying him any attention, except Trebon, who still seemed furious, and Lord Kristham’s daughters, who were in their late teens. They whispered to each other and fluttered their eyelashes at him. He smiled briefly and looked away, a little uncomfortable with their attention. Teen peasants who flirted with all the subtlety of a brick to the face were easy to turn away with a laugh and a gentle chide about bedtimes. Teen nobles who had mastered the art of quiet flirtations and would probably misconstrue anything he said unless he was very, very careful…

Well. It wasn’t as bad as fae. But the idea still made him uneasy. 

He  _ was _ barely eighteen. He may feel like a hundred years old sometimes, but he was barely an adult by noble standards. So flirting wouldn’t be seen as terrible and disgusting. But he… just couldn’t.

He continued reading the mood of the room, sensing trouble spots and watching the poor son play with his food, looking bored out of his mind. He was probably about Jaskier’s age, maybe a little older. Jaskier frowned slightly and looked around again. There was a distinct lack of young women. Why hire a bard, and mention dancing, if the birthday boy didn’t have partners to dance with? Or did he not like dancing? Why the insistence on music? Jaskier was very confused. But Lord Kristham had promised to pay him well for an amusing night; he would just have to do his best.

Around the time desserts were brought in, Jaskier looked over at Lord Kristham, who caught his eye and held up a finger, in a ‘wait’ gesture. Jaskier nodded a little, smiled briefly, and kept playing, shifting his weight a little. He was used to the weight of his lute, but standing still was a challenge. His feet hurt, but not in the way they did when he walked all night. It was a very annoying pain, instead of necessary.

“Bring in the dancers,” Lord Kristham said loudly.

Jaskier blinked, and looked where everyone else did.

Women in colorful patterned dresses walked in, followed by men in embroidered suits. Jaskier blinked again, then squinted. Their forms seemed to waver… normal beautiful humans or tall, ethereal shapes with sparkling eyes and knowing smiles?

The dancers all noticed Jaskier at the same time, and stopped halfway into the center of the hall. Jaskier stared back at them, realizing what they were.

After a tense moment, he bowed to them. The men bowed back, the women curtsied low. And then the dancers formed lines, Jaskier looked to Lord Kristham, and at the lord’s nod, Jaskier began to play.

It was not a song known to humans. But then, the dancers weren’t human. Fae. Jaskier was in the presence of fae, masquerading as humans. So he played songs for them, and watched their whirling, mesmerizing dances; his fingers danced too, plucking out a tune he barely recognized. They danced faster and faster; he closed his eyes so he wouldn’t be distracted. His hands slowed, the tune changing. He opened his eyes to see the dancers bringing in guests, and one particularly lovely fae-woman was leading the son by the hand into the dance, smiling coquettishly.

Jaskier frowned, but did not move or say anything. Instead, he watched, and played.

The fae were certainly having fun, teasing humans, dropping them and picking them up carelessly. Kristham’s son was in the thick of it, never allowed a rest. Jaskier recalled a tale about that. How, if you stepped inside a faery ring, and they didn’t want you to leave, you would dance with them until you died.

Jaskier stopped playing.

The fae immediately froze and looked at him. Slowly, the dizzy humans looked too. Jaskier smiled brightly.

“Surely it isn’t very good manners to wear people out so completely?” he asked, pitching his voice to carry.

Every fae there glared at him. Then the most beautiful one broke formation, approaching him, and smiling sweetly.

“Perhaps you would like to dance with us?” she said in a voice like honey; sweet, smooth, a trap.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Musicians aren’t allowed to dance,” he replied. “Manners.”

“Lay down your lute and dance with us.”

Jaskier cocked his head and looked at her. Her form was wavering even more, and her teeth were sharp as she bared them in a grin that might be a snarl.

“Alright,” he said, and laid down his lute on the floor. When he stepped closer, he lowered his voice, and said, “Let the boy go. He’s done in.”

“He made a bargain,” she murmured back, taking his hand and leading him into the heart of the dance.

“Oh?” Jaskier looked at Kristham’s son. He looked pale, feverish, and he was shaking. “Will you collect on his death?”

The fae snorted. “Yes. But you will do.”

The son was shoved out, and the dance began again. Jaskier followed the steps perfectly, as music swelled and flowed, from every direction, no living musicians needed. He hummed along, twirling, swirling, light on his feet, which suddenly didn’t ache. He wasn’t even breathing very hard.

Angered, the fae danced faster. He kept up, changing partners at their bidding, doing what was expected. They would stop, either at dawn or when they got bored. He just had to keep up.

There were no more human dancers in the circle. When had it become a circle? Jaskier didn’t know or care, passed from dancer to dancer, beginning to tire but refusing to stop and let them win. He set his chin and tightened his mouth and danced.

The fae began to mutter angrily. He did not listen.

“Julian,” hissed a hundred inhuman voices.

He did not listen, just danced.

And then they got rougher, shoving him between partners. Human voices were yelling; Jaskier caught a glimpse of warriors hesitating, trying to choose targets. He did not look again, only danced, finding the rhythm of changing partners, ignoring the pain in his body both from the dance and the hard hands—claws?—that caught and shoved and dug into him and tried to tear his clothing. Fae-clothes, fae gifts, to protect him. He realized that very suddenly. These clothes were not just pretty feathers. They were armor.

The doublet kept their hands from tearing his flesh. The trousers kept his legs from faltering. And though he could feel himself bleeding in his boots, his feet did not hesitate.

Armor. He was armored, and gifted, and he could keep them busy for as long as he needed to.

Suddenly, with a shriek that shook the castle, the fae shoved him into the open middle of the circle, and vanished, leaving the stone floor ground to dust where they had danced madly.

Jaskier’s legs finally folded, and he sat very suddenly, trying to catch his breath. Well. That was… interesting.

He looked around, and realized that every human in the room was cowering, and staring at him in fear. Oh. Oh dear. At least none of them were dead.

He tried to stand, and discovered that he couldn’t. He was just too tired. Dawn was fast approaching; if he saw the sun, he would pass out again. But he just couldn’t move. He wondered if they would let him sleep on the floor for the day.

He blinked, and suddenly he was being carried through the halls on a stretcher. Were they taking him to the dungeons? Wouldn’t surprise him. He closed his eyes again.

~

He woke, not in a dungeon, but in his room. After a moment of utter confusion, he realized that apparently, they were not going to immediately imprison him for drawing the fae’s ire and leaving the other humans free. That was… unexpected. Surely Trebon would have argued against letting him live after a stunt like that.

Jaskier sat up, slowly. Every inch of him ached from exertion. Then he realized someone had removed his boots and socks, and bandaged his feet. Why? Surely if they were just going to kill him, or throw him out, they wouldn’t have allowed anyone to care for those blisters. Blisters that he knew were already healed.

“Right on time,” said a brisk voice, and he started so hard he almost fell off the bed. His head whipped around to stare at the gnarled old woman hobbling through the door. Behind her came two young teens in green robes, one boy, one girl, both carrying trays. The girl carried a tray with a bowl, some small rolls, and a mug; the boy carried a tray with a miniature apothecary on it. The old woman pointed her cane at the small table, and the teens set the trays down on it. Jaskier watched, speechless, and when the woman grabbed his chin and pulled his head down so she could look at his eyes, he obeyed without question.

“Hmm. How do you feel, boy?” she asked, letting go of his chin.

“Tired,” he replied promptly. “Everything hurts. Who are you?”

“Court healer.” She grinned, showing sporadic but healthy teeth. “More use than that sorcerer Trebon, and he knows it. Any dizziness? Emotional instability?”

Jaskier shook his head. “No dizziness, and I think my emotions are as stable as usual. Why did you tend me? I should think I would be in a dungeon by now.”

“Oh, Trebon tried it. Pulled out every dirty trick in the book. Luckily, Kristham knows better, and listened to sense. Serrin, unbandage those feet, I have a theory.”

Serrin, the boy, made a sour face, but undid the bandages. Jaskier winced; the raw, bloody patches were less raw, but it still hurt to have them exposed to the air. And this, even with socks of wool so fine they were like plush velvet? The healer hobbled over and quickly looked the wounds over, then nodded and said, “I was right. You heal quite fast. Still, another round of poultice can’t hurt. Yanna, take that food over to him, and then both of you watch how I do this.”

Yanna was less sour as she picked up her tray again and gave it to Jaskier. He smiled and said “Thank you,” and she blushed before smiling back and hurrying to watch the healer.

Soup, still warm, and soft, sweet rolls. The mug was tea, bitter from herbs, but it woke him up. He ate it all, and was quite happy with how full he was when he was done. He really needed to use a chamberpot, but he would wait.

The healer had finished her poultice, and was now instructing her students on how to bandage Jaskier’s feet again. It tickled, but Jaskier didn’t flinch. It was nice to be touched gently, after the rough, exhausting dance.

He didn’t really know what happened. But one minute he was idly bewildered, and the next panic was clawing at his throat and the stench of fear and cum was filling his mind. The tray slid off his lap as he yanked his feet away and curled up tightly, trying to hold himself together, trying to breathe through wave after wave of sickened fear and despair.

No. No, he was out, he was free, he was alright. No one was going to hurt him like that again. He gulped air like he was drowning and tried to hold that slippery thought. He was alright. Geralt got him out, and he was never going back.

The waves of fear lessened, until he could breathe. He stayed curled up, arms around his legs, forehead on his knees, and just breathed, forcing himself to take note of his surroundings, everything that was different. The bed was comfortable and clean. He wore clothes, nice clothes, that hid his body. The smells of herbs and flowers and soap were strong and clean. The taste of tea and bread was comforting. And this room was quiet, except for the shocked whispering of the teens, the soothing murmur of the healer, and his own heartbeat. No stomping feet. No yelling from below. Just quiet.

His heart calmed. His breathing eased. He raised his head, blinking back tears. The children were staring. The healer looked sad.

“Alright now, lad?” she asked softly.

No. Not in the slightest. He still felt like the world was going to cave in, but at least he could breathe. “Yes,” he said. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright. Come, let us finish.”

So Jaskier straightened out his legs, and let them finish bandaging his feet. Then he drank a cool, soothing potion, and the aches in his body eased, even the remembered ones. Then the healer patted his shoulder and told him to sleep, and he nodded and laid down. But he couldn’t sleep. He was still shivering. Maybe the world wasn’t going to cave in, but he still couldn’t trust it. What was ‘it’? He had no idea. Death? The walls? His bed? Something was off and he couldn’t relax and let it go.

He groped blindly over the side of his bed and somehow his lute met his hand. He grabbed it, and sat up again, and pulled the lute into his lap. Without hesitation, he began to play himself a lullaby.

He felt safer almost immediately. No one could hurt him while he played. He lived in a bubble of peace as long as he had his lute.

He started singing softly, in a language he didn’t know. A song from before, maybe. Why would he remember a song from before he lost his memory? Maybe it wasn’t memory. Maybe it had just always been there, waiting.

Jaskier closed his eyes, playing and singing, and the world settled into place. He was safe. He was alive and healthy. Nothing could touch him.

~~~\0/~~~

“Took you long enough, asshole.”

Geralt didn’t react to Lambert’s prod, and instead just walked right past to go and dump his saddlebags in his room. He had been feeling sour and grumpy, no,  _ angry _ , for about two weeks now. He didn’t like that he knew why.

“Is something wrong?” Eskel asked on the landing, apparently startled.

“No,” Geralt growled, “Not one fucking thing.”

“...alright.”

Geralt almost snarled something, just to try and get a rise out of Eskel, but that wasn’t fair. So he just threw his things on the floor and sat on his bed, rubbing his face with both hands.

Was Jaskier alright? It was a question he’d been trying to ignore ever since they parted ways. Was he still at that tavern? Was he unhurt? Did he keep the ring and the knives? It had been stupid of Geralt to leave those for Jaskier, but he’d wanted Jaskier to have weapons, to protect himself—and the ring had been something like an apology. Had he pawned it off? Did he keep it? Was he wearing it?

Geralt dug his fingers into his hair and squeezed his eyes shut. He’d thought returning home, returning to Kaer Morhen, would make him give up on these stupid thoughts. Surely he’d stop this incessant litany of worry once he was cut off and couldn’t do anything.

Was Jaskier thinking of him?

“Geralt?”

He snapped upright, hands falling and eyes opening. “Yes?” he said.

Vesemir stood in his doorway, arms crossed, frowning. “What’ve you done now, boy?” he demanded. “Tell me this isn’t about some woman or another.”

“It’s not a woman,” Geralt snapped, then winced.

Vesemir raised one grey brow. “I thought you gave up on men.”

“I did. It’s nothing to do with that kind of thing.”

“Mm-hm. I hope you know that if it’s a human, they’ll forget.”

Geralt pressed his lips together tightly. That was the problem. He knew that in his bones, and it  _ hurt _ .

Vesemir sighed. “Come on, Lambert finished cooking. It’s chicken.”

Geralt didn’t want chicken. He wanted the taste of Jaskier’s sweat. But that was stupid, so he stood and followed Vesemir downstairs.

He spent a week pushing himself to work through these shitty worries and wants with drills and patching the keep, but he failed when he had a memory-dream of that morning when he and Jaskier had just lain in bed and touched. No sex, but a breathtakingly monumental amount of intimacy and trust that he’d been struggling not to realize for almost a month. He woke with an ache deep in his chest and his head so full of confused emotions and thoughts that he spent all of breakfast in a daze, barely aware of anything outside of himself.

Then of course Lambert broke him out of it by dropping a piece of ice down the back of his shirt, necessitating a wrestling match that Geralt was winning before Eskel pulled them apart.

But that helped. He stopped worrying about the worry, because worrying about the worry just made him worse, which made him worry more. He just shoved all thoughts of Jaskier aside, like he did with everything, and waited for them to fade.

They did not fade.

Two months into winter, Geralt had a dream about Jaskier’s mouth, and how good it felt, and when he woke up heated and dizzy and sweating, he barely managed to recognize he was awake before his cock started aching and he had to do something about that quickly. He had to come twice before he stopped aching for Jaskier.

He was grumpy all day, to the point where even Lambert was wary.

Eskel was the one who forced him to come clean. He just sat Geralt down and said very seriously, “Geralt, you’re acting like a fucking asshole, and it’s really annoying. What happened?”

Geralt did not meet Eskel’s gaze as he muttered, “Nothing. Nothing happened.”

“You were always a shit liar. Who’s that Jaskier person you were muttering about last night?”

Geralt clenched his hands into fists and stared at the corner behind Eskel. “No one,” he said.

Eskel sighed heavily. “So you  _ did _ get attached again.”

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“No, did not.”

“Look, we both know that you did, let’s just move on. Why are you worrying so much? It’s not like humans ever remember.”

“He’s not human,” Geralt blurted.

Eskel’s eyebrows rose. “Oh?” he said noncommittally.

“He’s—he made a bargain, with the fae. And now he’s not human.” That corner was quite engrossing. “Fuck. He’s just a  _ kid _ , what if they throw him out and he gets hurt, he doesn’t even know how to fight, idiot doesn’t even  _ know _ that he made a bargain—”

“Hey, calm down.” Eskel leaned over and grabbed Geralt’s arm, shaking him out of the spiral of distress. “When did you meet him?”

“Months ago. I… got him out of a place, and then I left him somewhere else. He got run out, I don’t know when, and then we met up again and I… he just started following me. And when I told him he couldn’t come with me over the winter he got sad and then I just left him again and—” Geralt cut himself off to rub his face with both hands, upset and angry and actually a little scared. Not even that woman who fell in love with him for a season had tied him up like this. “Fuck,” he said with great finality from behind his hands.

“Okay. So you’re really attached to this kid, who seems pretty attached to you. Did you, by chance, save him from something bad?”

“...Yes,” Geralt mumbled.

“And he followed you and you presumably kept him safe?”

“Yes.”

“You did this to yourself.”

“I know.”

Eskel sighed and patted Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. It’s gonna hurt, but don’t let it tie you up too much.”

Geralt nodded without removing his hands. It was possible that Jaskier would remember him. Would still like him. But would Jaskier trust him? No, of course not. Because Geralt had abandoned him.

“You are  _ such _ an idiot,” Lambert said from the doorway.

“Damn it, Lambert!” Vesemir hissed, and there was the thwack of a hand upside a head.

Eskel snorted, and Geralt sighed heavily, but he felt his despairing mood lighten a little. He usually hated the others by the end of winter, but it made him feel better to know that his family was never going to change. Yes, they were always going to piss him off, but they were always going to be there, too. He was glad of that.

It got easier. By the time spring tentatively touched the Continent, Geralt was… resigned. That made it easier to push back these uncomfortable thoughts and prepare to go out and risk his life to keep humanity thriving. So what if Jaskier hated him? It wouldn’t be the first time. And he was over it now. Mostly. Sort of. A little bit.

~

He only stopped in for a night, but before he could even find a suitable inn, he was approached by some guards and politely invited to the castle. Geralt knew Lord Kristham; he was an alright human who understood the place of Witchers in the world. Perhaps he had a job for Geralt. This wouldn’t be the first time.

Lord Kristham was standing in the Great Hall, talking to someone, when the guards led Geralt in. The someone had warm brown hair, and wide shoulders with a trim waist, and his smile and vigorous hand movements were familiar… as was the red and blue outfit.

Geralt wanted to turn and run as a thousand thoughts and feelings boiled up in his chest and head, but instead he kept his face still as stone and walked with absolutely no hesitation. Of course, Jaskier had to ruin it for him by looking, and his own face absolutely lit up. Like he was happy to see Geralt.

Oh no.

Geralt nodded to Jaskier, a little awkwardly, and then let his attention turn to Lord Kristham, who was looking annoyingly smug.

“Witcher Geralt! Good to see you again,” Kristham said, gesturing for Geralt to come closer. He did, trying to hide trepidation, and allowed himself one little glance at Jaskier. The bard was staring at him, eyes flicking over his face, searching for something. He seemed to find it, because he grinned, but said nothing.

Alright, so it hadn’t been a little glance. It wasn’t Geralt’s fault that Jaskier was so eye-catching, and smelled like cherries and blackberries and lilac.

“Do you know each other?” Kristham asked, a little too innocently.

“Some,” Geralt replied shortly.

“He’s the one I told you about,” Jaskier added breezily. “The one I traveled with for a few days.”

Had it only been a few days? Why had Jaskier told anyone that they knew each other? Geralt kept silent.

“Ah! Everything makes sense now,” Kristham said cryptically, eyes twinkling. “Well, Witcher, since you arrived just in time for the first day of planting, why not stay for the banquet? Jaskier here will be providing entertainment.”

Geralt desperately wanted to say no—but the hope on Jaskier’s face was too much, and Geralt was too weak. He nodded.

“I’d be honored,” he muttered, trying to ignore Jaskier’s grin.

~

Geralt did not expect to be given a seat at the high table, but Kristham insisted, and Geralt had been so startled that he’d said, “Only if there’s alcohol.”

Kristham had laughed and assured him there would be.

And he was right, there was alcohol; wine of a vintage Geralt had never tasted, and pitchers of stout, and cider, and flavored vodka. Geralt started with stout, but as the night wore on, he found himself reaching for the vodka more often.

It just wasn’t fair. He was seated between Kristham and his son, and while Kristham was polite and didn’t mind Geralt’s steadily sharper comments, the son was absolutely oblivious to Geralt’s presence, because he was staring at Jaskier. That was fine; Geralt didn’t want to talk to a gawky teen with pimples and a pathetic mustache. What wasn’t fair, was that Jaskier was there, and Geralt really couldn’t stare at him like the son did without people noticing.

If Geralt had been allowed to hide in the shadows, he could have stared all he wanted. But no. No, Kristham was a cruel, cruel man, and Jaskier was even crueler.

There was no call for those trousers that clung to his hips, ass, and thighs. The outfit was a dusty blue that went well with his eyes. And it was fucking unfair for him to sing that well, and play songs full of innuendos about spring being the time for sex. Innocent words, very innocent, but that smirk was  _ not _ innocent and Geralt was  _ pissed _ about that.

Fuck, why couldn’t he just drag Jaskier to his room and ravish him so that he was too breathless to sing those songs? It would be an easier death than this.

“He’s very good, isn’t he?”

Geralt put down his goblet and narrowed his eyes at Kristham, who was watching him slyly. “Yes,” Geralt said stiffly.

“He has quite a few songs about Witchers,” Kristham mentioned, toying with his own goblet. “They’re all quite good. I’m sure if you ask, he’ll sing some for you.”

Geralt shook his head. “Not interested. Did you have a job for me?” Anything to turn the conversation. Anything.

“No. Can’t a man invite his esteemed visitor to a banquet?”

“I’m not esteemed.”

“According to our mutual acquaintance, you are.”

Thank fuck Witchers couldn’t blush. “He’s wrong,” Geralt replied flatly.

Kristham chuckled and finished his wine.

There was dancing. Jaskier sang a song about love at first dance, and left it very ambiguous to what  _ kind _ of dance he was singing about. If he kept this up Geralt was going to start getting hard, and that would be terrible.

Geralt was definitely getting drunk. Time to lay off the alcohol.

But it had been a long time, up in the mountains, thinking about Jaskier. He’d done his best not to have sexual thoughts, but that dream about his mouth—fuck, no, damn it, think of something else, something to kill this erection.

Geralt looked around restlessly, and saw that the court magician at the end of the table was glaring at Jaskier with murder on his face. That cooled Geralt immediately. Danger. There was danger there. Focused on Jaskier, but with volatile magicians, there was always a splash zone.

The elegant woman beside the magician hissed at him for a moment, then stood and walked away, to smile with real enjoyment at a younger man who immediately stood to take her hand and lead her to join the dancing. The magician turned purple, watching the woman smile at another man.

Jaskier finished his song, and then laughed when an older lady of quality walked over and whispered in his ear. With a few words to his fellow minstrels, who all snorted or nodded, Jaskier left his lute behind and joined the dancing.

Geralt tried not to watch. He really did. But he kept remembering, as Jaskier stepped smoothly through the dance, that time in that village, where Jaskier had danced by himself in the middle of their room, so effortlessly. He was still effortless here, changing partners with ease and complementing each one.

The minute Jaskier and the woman who had sat with the magician touched hands and smiled at each other, Geralt smelled a hot, metallic spike of rage. He tensed, and looked to the magician.

The man was white with fury, eyes bulging, and suddenly he stood and screamed, “That is enough from  _ you _ , you witch’s bastard!”

The music stopped and everyone stared. Geralt stood and walked swiftly towards the magician, who was raving about Jaskier poisoning his wife. Geralt put his hand on the magician’s shoulder, and when the man turned to snarl at him, Geralt said calmly, “Sir, this is not the time or place. Either sit and shut up or leave.”

“How dare you speak to me that way!” the magician shrieked, slapping Geralt’s hand away. Geralt narrowed his eyes, wishing he was in full armor, not just shirt, trousers, and brigandine. For once, being scary would be useful. “You Witchers know nothing of humanity!”

“I know enough to realize when a human is being a shithead for the sake of being a shithead,” Geralt said.

There was absolute silence. Even the magician was gaping at him, astonished. Geralt began to feel very uncomfortable. He should not have drunk so much.

“He’s got you there, Trebon!” Kristham called gleefully. “Now do as he says and either sit or leave.”

Spluttering, but rapidly shrinking from fury to fear and shame, the magician slunk away, shoving past people to exit the hall. Geralt turned and saw that everyone was staring, so he put on his most unreadable stone mask and tried to decide which door to leave from.

“Come on, Witcher, come sit by me,” Kirstham ordered, and Geralt shrugged but returned to his seat. A glance around again caught Jaskier beaming at Geralt, like he was  _ proud _ . It was quite flustering.

The dancing was pretty much ruined, because everyone was a little shaken. Jaskier kissed the elegant woman’s hand with equal elegance (where had he learned such courtly manners?) and retrieved his lute. Everyone decided it would be best to just split up into clusters and “socialize”—but Geralt’s acute hearing picked up many gleeful tones talking about how Trebon had made a mistake from which there could be no recovery. Not only had a Witcher gotten involved, but these baseless accusations would surely tear him down so that he could never get other work. He’d be thrown out, and a new magician would be found. Hopefully one who wouldn’t get so pissy over a good luck charm like that bard, Jaskier.

Good luck charm? Geralt really wanted to ask, but he didn’t dare.

“Thank you for stepping in,” Kristham told Geralt in a low tone, bringing him back to his place. “He’s been getting too big for his britches, but it’s hard to remove a magician who’s married to your sister. She doesn’t even like him, but she won’t ask for an annulment. Ah, well, perhaps this will be the final straw.”

“Should you be telling me this?” Geralt murmured back, surprised.

“Probably not,” Kristham replied cheerfully, “But if she ever finds out, we can both blame it on the drink.”

Geralt frowned, but nodded.

The banquet ended soon, and Kristham did a horrible thing and asked Jaskier to escort Geralt to his room. Geralt hoped desperately that Jaskier would say no—but of course the bastard said yes, sunny and innocent. Geralt didn’t even know how Jaskier knew where his room was.

No matter. They were sent on their way and Geralt held grimly to the knowledge that Jaskier knew how to manipulate a court now; he would understand how bad it would be for his reputation to be seen with a Witcher. And that magician would be even angrier.

When they reached Geralt’s room, Jaskier turned and smiled at him, and Geralt’s heart skipped a beat. No, no, Jaskier was supposed to hate him, all humans hated him, but fuck Geralt was so weak for that smile and the way Jaskier asked, “How long at you staying?”

“Just for the night,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier looked disappointed, then sly, and inched closer to put his hand on Geralt’s arm. Fuck. The scent of cherries and blackberries and Jaskier was getting to him, filling his lungs with sweetness and giddiness. His own hand rose and gripped Jaskier’s arm so gently, this delicate human who smiled at him warmly and asked softly, “Can I stay with you tonight?”

Geralt forgot all the warnings, all reason, all knowledge of what would inevitably happen in the morning, and nodded.

~~~\0/~~~

Jaskier hadn’t had sex with another man since Geralt, and he was delighted to find out that Geralt was still gentle to him; even rough rutting against Jaskier’s thigh as they tore off each other’s clothes wasn’t painful.

Jaskier had brought a small twist of waxed paper with some oil he’d filched from the kitchens, and Geralt used all of it. Jaskier waited for the first painful push—but instead Geralt was slow, and the pain was barely there. Jaskier actually enjoyed the act of sex, not just being with the one man who had never hurt him.

Well, yes, it had hurt to be left behind so thoroughly, but Geralt had not closed off from Jaskier; tried to pretend they didn’t know each other  _ well _ , yes, but pushing him away completely? Not at all.

And now Jaskier was in bed with him, touching him where he liked to be touched, kissing him where he liked to be kissed, and moaning as he bit Jaskier’s neck, carefully, his sharp teeth not even nicking Jaskier. He was careful. Well, he was until he groaned and sped up, shifting Jaskier into a different position, and even though it was still a little scary from memories, it was also glorious. Because it felt good. And he trusted Geralt completely. And those rough, scarred hands held him so comfortably and with such care.

Jaskier had discovered that he had a  _ Thing _ for being treated well in bed. The few women he’d slept with since coming here had all been enthusiastic about returning the attempts to make them feel cared about and appreciated, and he had liked that. But there was something about giving himself over completely to a man who could crush him in an instant, but instead chose to kiss and cradle and make him feel good, that made him… happy.

He came first, which was a surprise, and didn’t mind when Geralt got rougher and came with a groan. Honest, faint bruises from Geralt’s hands and vague discomfort were worth being with him.

Jaskier wanted to stay, but after cleaning up, Geralt muttered, “You… should go. You have a reputation.”

Jaskier snorted. “I’ve a reputation for flirting with everyone. No one will think it odd if I put about that I seduced you.”

Geralt looked at him with the strangest expression. Part bewildered, part amused, part disbelief, part sad. “That’s not how it works with Witchers,” he said. “You should go.”

Jaskier took a breath to argue, but Geralt’s expression made him hesitate. So instead he just hugged Geralt, whispered, “I really did miss you,” and left.

No one saw him, which was good, because he was limping slightly and his hair was mussed and sweaty and he stank of sex and Geralt. He made it to his own room with a sigh, undressed more slowly, washed sketchily with the water and soap in his dressing room, and went to bed.

~~~\0/~~~

Geralt laid in bed awake for a very long time.

Missed him?  _ Missed _ him? That meant Jaskier had thought about him. But surely he was remembering incorrectly? Geralt had hurt him. And now he’d selfishly fucked Jaskier and made him want to stay. He should have resisted, he should have scared Jaskier off, because all humans were scared of him, it was only a matter of time before Jaskier was too—but fuck, he wanted Jaskier to like him. He wanted him to be unafraid.

He was getting hard again. Jaskier had obviously been exercising, because his shoulders and arms and chest had been very filled out, and his waist was hard with muscle, and his legs had clamped around Geralt so tightly, but he’d been so flexible and willing to bend how Geralt wanted—Geralt pulled his pillow over his head and tried to stop thinking about Jaskier’s body and his smile and his noises of pleasure and encouragement. And his kisses, his kisses and his hands, fuck, stop it Geralt, stop thinking about him—

He couldn’t. He was drunk and desperate and Jaskier had been gentle, he had to take himself in hand and work off the buzzing lust under his skin. It didn’t go away when he came, but he was too tired for more. So he cleaned himself, again, and curled up in bed and stubbornly replayed the sight of Jaskier dancing with other people over and over in his head. If he made himself sad that Jaskier was happier without him, he wouldn’t want him to stay so much.

It worked, a little. He stopped wanting Jaskier’s body and acceptance. But then he started just wanting Jaskier’s attention, however fleeting. One more smile. One more greeting. One more meeting of their eyes.

How fucking pathetic, that the first time a human showed him kindness, he started pining, like a dog who’d been beaten and starved until one person was nice. Unlike the dog, Geralt could not follow that one person, and that one person would not want him to, anyway. Geralt was a monster, and that was only further illustrated by his sudden attachment. Humans didn’t get this obsessed so quickly.

Witchers don’t sleep often. Geralt hated that so much.

~

In the morning, he prepared to leave before breakfast. Unfortunately, Kristham’s servants got up at dawn, and cornered him to tell him that he was invited to an early breakfast with Kristham, his wife, their children, and “certain honored guests”.

Geralt had a terrible feeling he knew who those guests were.

But Kristham’s cook was very good and Geralt knew he wouldn’t get a filling, wholesome meal for another few days. So he agreed. He told himself it wasn’t because he wanted to see Jaskier.

He forwent his armor, except for his brigandine, and his weapons, though that made him feel naked and nervous. He had his own strength and all of his limbs; he could fight if he had to. But fuck, he felt so unprotected. And he didn’t know  _ why _ . Certainly he felt fine when naked in the woods with monsters around; but a quiet breakfast with humans who wouldn’t try to kill him made him tense.

Still. He went, and nodded silently when he was announced, and sat at the foot of the table, away from everyone. There was a general air of relaxation from the humans, except Lord Kristham, who looked a little sad and resigned.

Before anyone spoke to him, Jaskier entered.

“Hello, everyone!” the bastard said cheerfully, and sat next to Geralt. There were five empty chairs at the table. And he chose the one next to Geralt.

Fucking prick.

Somehow, Jaskier started a lively conversation that consisted almost completely of gossip about other nobles. He knew more than Geralt thought was decent—but, then again, Geralt didn’t know anything about nobles except that they were the least likely to pay fairly. Jaskier also flirted with Lady Kristham outrageously, making her blush and smile, and Lord Kristham only seemed amused.

“Sorcerer Trebon,” the butler announced, and in stomped the magician. He glared at Geralt and Jaskier, then settled across from Geralt. The daughter on that side of the table scooted subtly away from Trebon, towards her mother.

Finally, the servants brought in the food. Jaskier entertained the family easily, completely ignoring Geralt and Trebon. Good. The Witcher ate in silence, comforted somehow by Jaskier’s closeness and avoidance. An acknowledgment and refusal. That’s all he wanted. He relaxed, somehow, though he did still feel unsafe.

The noise of speech began to wear on Geralt, though. He was still used to silence, or quiet arguments; winter was a time to rest, calm down, be quiet. So much chatter, so soon, made him irritable. He did not show this.

“I’ve heard that Witchers are antisocial, but I must confess to some wonderment as to your behavior,” Trebon said suddenly, cutting across Jaskier’s joke about two philosophers and a farmer.

Geralt took the time to finish chewing and swallowing before looking up and meeting Trebon’s eyes. “Would you prefer I pretend that your view of me matters at all?” he asked neutrally.

Trebon narrowed his eyes at Geralt and snapped back, “It is terrible manners to ignore your host, however kindly disposed he is to you.”

“Good thing I don’t have manners, then,” Geralt replied calmly, and went back to his food, deliberately setting down his fork and picking up one of the two spoons beside his plate to finish eating his eggs.

Jaskier bit back a snicker. The children giggled nervously. Kristham said casually, “Trebon, I would like to talk to you after breakfast. Master Jaskier, what happens next in the story?”

With a slightly smug grin, Jaskier picked up where he had been cut off.

Geralt finished before anyone else, but he didn’t really know if it was appropriate to leave. So he listened silently, and when Lord Kristham finished eating, Geralt pushed away from the table. Kristham nodded to him.

“Safe journeys, Witcher,” he said.

“Thank you,” Geralt replied, stood, and walked out.

His things were untouched, which was better than last time. He shrugged on his armor and weapons, picked up his saddlebags, and left the manor. Servants ignored him, or at most gave a curt nod with a closed expression. Kristham’s respect for Witchers was seen as madness, but he was rich and it was true that Witchers had never caused trouble in his city, so the castle staff were willing to let Geralt’s presence slide. The guards gripped their weapons a little tighter when he passed, but did not challenge him.

He was finishing with Roach’s tack when he heard footsteps in the stable, and smelled cherries and blackberries and lilac.

“Hey, Geralt?”

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then put on his best foreboding scowl and turned to Jaskier, who stood just outside of Roach’s stall. “What,” he said flatly.

Jaskier rocked on his heels, hands twisting together, though his expression was merely hopeful, not anxious. “Can I come with you?” he asked.

“No,” Geralt replied, alarm zinging through him.

“Trebon has sworn blood enmity against us both. Wouldn’t it be better if we both left as soon as possible?”

“Hm.” Geralt turned back to Roach and finished one last check before leading her to the stall door. Jaskier stepped out of the way, but did not leave.

“I will take that as a reluctant yes.”

“It’s not.”

“You know what’s interesting about making bargains with fae? Lies don’t work on me.” Jaskier grinned at Geralt’s stare. “What did that little grunt mean?”

Geralt decided not to answer. When talking to fae, silence was usually a safe bet so you could think on a tricky bit of speech. He wasn’t sure how much of Jaskier was changed, but if he could sense lies, then it might be prudent to just not talk to him. Also not talking might put him off.

“I’ll go get my bag. Meet you at the West Gate!” And Jaskier was off, whistling cheerfully.

Geralt stared after him. Then he grimaced and rubbed his face. “He’s not going to give up,” he said to Roach. “What do I do?”

She looked at him and stamped her foot. He needed to think for himself on this. Geralt scowled, and muttered, “Maybe he’ll go away on the road.”

He ignored the tiny voice hoping Jaskier wouldn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> *bows and hands you an envelope dripping with seals and ribbons* You are formally invited to comment below, your Grace.


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